To Be Loved or Feared
by LaMontagnarde
Summary: RoyOlivier. The rating has been adjusted downward from M. Ch 18 - Jean attempts lunch with Riza, to find that the worst day of his life is about to unfold. Next chapter, we will see Riza's same experience on that awful day.
1. A Heavy Heart and a Racing Mind

Note: My friend challenged me to write this fic. I accepted the challenge. So in this fic, look for bizarreness. I am a _huge _Royai fan, and in _no way _am I a proponent of any pairings in this fic. Oh, the rating is for some language, but not much else. There might be some violence, but mostly not. This is strict mangaverse – I do refer to things from the manga. It will be helpful to have read up to chapter 71. The action picks up after the action in 70/71, and thus will diverge from the manga at this point.

**Day One – Roy Mustang  
"A Heavy Heart and a Racing Mind"**

_How will I get permission to go to Briggs? _Roy was stumped at what to do with Olivier's letter – the Fuhrer would never let him leave Central, especially not to deal with an unknown, independent operator like Major General Armstrong, who surely could not be fully trusted by the corrupt core of higher-ups. A Colonel could not very well ask the Fuhrer for this type of self-decided assignment, even in the best of circumstances. He was not stumped for long, though, and his massive arrangement of flowers was still mostly alive (though slowly decaying towards their inevitable early death in his hotel room) when he received the summons.

The messenger came to the Colonel's room, knocked politely, handed over the letter and left.

_Colonel Roy Mustang,_

_The Fuhrer requests your presence to discuss a temporary reassignment. You are to report immediately._

"They don't like giving me much room to maneuver, do they…" Roy thought absently as he shifted gears in his mind… going to Northern, he could see Falman, and taking his skilled Eastern force would leave him in a foreign land with many loyal followers, despite his main group being shattered. Even with the renegade Olivier Armstrong, who ominously wished that he'd "disappear", in charge, he could flesh out many plans there. Perhaps he could even take Major Armstrong and Sergeant Brosh as well, to have people with ties to Central. His brain whirled impressively as he drove to headquarters, setting up traps, decoys, disguises, and devising how to discover new friends and enemies in Northern.

"Sit down, Colonel." Without missing a beat, Mustang sat down, instinctively counting the people in the room, sorting them by rank and likelihood of inside knowledge. Of the moderately-sized group, most of whom were busy with other tasks and talking amongst themselves, only a few seemed likely to be inner sanctum level, so Mustang relaxed slightly, realizing that his death was unlikely in such company – "that which does not kill me…" he thought.

"Colonel, I have had a request for your regiment to be redeployed in the North, apparently there is some concern there that a disturbance may open them to attack from Drachma. They would like your offensive forces to join with their defensive forces to create a repellant force against our neighbor's potential attack." The Fuhrer did not know that Mustang already knew! How delightful! That flower-seller is the real deal, thought Mustang. Of course, there was always a possibility that he was being played.

"I am honored to be thought of by such a powerful defensive wing of the army as a fitting complement, sir. Have you decided if I am needed in Northern, or if I should stay here?" Mustang couldn't help but pat himself on the back mentally for his quick thinking and seamless transition to feigned ignorance. This self-affirmation took place without a single outward sign.

"I have decided you and your Eastern friends may go – all of your subordinates still under your command here at Central, and a few other Eastern divisions are to be sent to Northern with you, to be met by General Raven and kept under his custody when there. I doubt that I need to say that you yourself will be personally supervised by General Raven. If anything suspicious reaches us about you, you know what we will do."

_No. _"Yes, sir. I understand fully, sir."

He returned to his hotel room with a heavy heart and a racing mind, realizing that he would have to be incredibly careful – Riza would be the first they would torture and kill if he stepped out of line. He would need to get out from under Raven's thumb, of course, if he was to make any real plans, and that would be a trick and a half, to put it mildly. He quickly thought of something and ran out on a few errands, returning quite late at night.


	2. That Crisp Pragmatic Way

**Day One – Olivier Armstrong**

"**That Crisp, Pragmatic Way"**

"Major Miles, send a telegram to Central, please." Olivier curtly recited the message in that crisp, pragmatic way of hers, and sat down, dismissing Miles and her secretary. Would Central allow a known traitor to join her at Briggs? Of course, she herself was still considered an ally, at least until they knew about Raven's true fate. A few hours later, a response came, and Miles delivered it back to her.

_General Olivier Armstrong,_

_We are currently running a covert investigation on Colonel Mustang, and cannot allow his departure from Central at this time._

"Act naturally, Olivier, act naturally… got it!" She quickly responded –

_Central Command,_

_Understand our dire need here at the border. If Colonel Mustang is a suspicious character, our patriotism and efficiency will be more than enough to prompt our own investigation, but we need his army, and he is the best man to lead it. We are more than capable of fishing out insurgency, as we face it constantly from foreign enemies. We will be sure to impress upon the Colonel the danger that we will all face, even a traitor, if the enemy encroaches upon us. He will doubtless understand._

The response, this time, was favorable, and another message was sent to Kimbley, which Armstrong read – the letter stated that Kimbley was to essentially babysit Colonel Mustang until General Raven was found, when Raven was to take over said responsibility. Now all that was left was to wait for the Colonel to arrive. Unfortunately, like Fullmetal, he would probably be recalcitrant at first – probably even more so, since he was protecting four hostages, not just one, and they were spread out over the nation. Olivier sighed at the realization that this would be difficult, even though she would be dealing with an ally. Politics was so unnatural to her – laws of man were not her highest guiding lights. Rather, it was the brutal law of nature, of the deeper and more intense higher goals, that led her through her life. Colonel Mustang was better at politics, she would concede this. And getting a politician to deal with her honestly would be rather annoying.


	3. Scare the Daylights out of Him

**Day One – Central Command**

"**Scare the Daylights out of Him"**

"Fuhrer, we have a request from Major General Olivier Armstrong of Briggs that the Eastern regiments under Colonel Mustang be deployed to Northern. They have been shaken rather badly by freak circumstances recently, and fear a Drachman attack, which they hope to prevent by aligning with an offensive-heavy Eastern force."

The Fuhrer looked at the lowly Sergeant, quickly scribbled a note, and dismissed the young man – keeping the note safe in his pocket until the man left the room, then turning to another stern-eyed soldier, the only one left in his office. "Envy, send this message to Northern. There is no way we're allowing the Colonel out of our sights."

After they sent their reply, and waited for Armstrong's message of receipt, they discussed the Northern Wall of Briggs.

"Wrath, I'm telling you – she is not to be trusted. General Raven disappeared, and while she is unlikely to be the culprit if foul play was involved, the whole mess does taint her trustworthiness until we reach the bottom of it."

"Look, Envy – she has that Ishbalan on her staff, Miles, who I'm sure is the culprit, after all Raven was a huge proponent of the Ishbal annihilation. Of course, we cannot be too careful with her."

"Maybe it would be a good idea to send the Eastern army to Briggs, though. When it comes to death-dealing, they are star quality, after all. Maybe by sending them we can increase Briggs' ultimate death toll. I say we send the troops over, just without Mustang."

"That would be difficult to arrange, and needlessly suspicious in execution."

"Good point."

At this moment, the Sergeant walked in with Armstrong's militant response. After The Fuhrer and Envy waited for the man to leave, they continued their discussion.

"Lucky for her, we were already about to honor her request, how fortuitous," snarled Envy.

"Of course, we do need to keep Mustang here. How about this – let him go up with the commanders and their staffs now, have the rest of the enlisted follow in a week, since they will take longer to mobilize, and then by the time the enlisted get back up there, lure him down before he can get settled in or actually order his men to do anything."

"Wrath, you're just a kid, but I like you. I really do."

"Oh, that's not all. I want to make sure he doesn't pull any funny business before we can lure him back to Central, so when I send him up I'll scare him. And I know just the name to scare the daylights out of him. General Raven."

"Um, Raven's missing."

"So? Mustang won't know that until he's there, when he'll meet Major Kimbley, who is just as intimidating in person. A little mindfucking, I think, is just what the doctor ordered for our little renegade."

"Wrath, have I mentioned recently that I like you?"


	4. I Will Be Spread Too Thin

**Days Two and Three Part I – Roy Mustang**

"**I Will Be Spread Too Thin"**

Colonel Mustang, Major Armstrong, and the officer core of the group were to leave immediately on a military train to go to Briggs and set up. Of course, Mustang himself was to report immediately to General Raven upon arrival. Mustang slowly lugged his bags down to the car, and listlessly rode to the station, thinking about last night, when he went to Riza's to explain about everything.

"Colonel! You're leaving Central?"

"I know that having the two of us separated is, obviously, one thing that the enemy cannot resist using against us, but Briggs is where the final fight may take place, and I need to be there."

"I understand, but… I should be there too. It's not fair."

"Nothing is fair, Lieutenant! I may not even be able to act on my plans unless I make sure I am careful to the nth degree! What they told me today, I – "

"I swear to God Colonel, if you give up your dream of reforming this nation because of us, you are _not _the man I agreed to follow for the rest of my life. Never negotiate with terrorists, and never put the lives of four subordinates above the lives of a nation's citizens! Now get out, and straighten out your priorities." She paused a moment - "I hope to hear from Briggs."

Mustang sighed as he pulled the luggage off of the car and onto the train, breathing heavily when faced with the immensity of the bags. Sitting down, he steeled himself for the long and likely boring train trip ahead. Major Armstrong would be trying to distract Sergeant Brosh, one of the few enlisted on this early trip, from his still-present depression, and no one else who Mustang talked to was on this train. The Colonel had nothing to do but to continue rehashing his plans. When the meal carts came by, he declined any food – he wasn't hungry. The arrival in Briggs could not come soon enough, despite the hardships it promised.

The first hardship Mustang noticed was the godawful cold. His thickest, warmest overcoat was no match for the freezing landscape, and he was amazingly thankful for the relative warmth of the Headquarters building. He reported immediately to General Raven's office after being directed by one of Major General Armstrong's aides. He figured he could skip out on seeing the Armstrong family reunion, and then double back to introduce himself to the Major General. In General Raven's office, Colonel Mustang found an unpleasant surprise, to say the least.

"Oh! Colonel! What a lovely surprise, you see, I do remember you from Ishbal. Do you remember me – Major Crimson? I still wonder how you got promoted above me, but hey, what can you do. I did spend quite some time as a war criminal, thank goodness that's all cleared up. So anyway, how's your little sniper friend? You and her are more than friends by now, right? I mean, you always did defend her, even back in the day."

"Where's General Raven?" Mustang didn't know that he could actually desire the presence of such a treacherous man, but compared to Kimbley, even Raven could seem like good company.

"Eh, he's missing, so now you're officially my problem. Kind of sucks for me, quite honestly. But, I know you're a naughty little Colonel, so I'll have to really keep my eye on you."

"I don't have the energy to fight you right now. I'm going to meet with the Major General, and then I'm going to bed. Is that enough information about my plans for today? Or are you going to follow me or something? How is this going to work?"

Kimbley shrugged, clearly as bored with his present company as Mustang was aggravated with his. Then a messenger walked in, handed a message to Kimbley, and left. Kimbley read for a moment, then yelled,

"You know what, Mustang? I _will _follow you until you're safely in your quarters. I do my job well, but these nutcrackers let Scar slip through our fingers again! I will make sure that one of my jobs is done right!" The mad bomber's face was red, and his eyes were redder, and focused on his new prey. Mustang did a quick about face and walked to General Armstrong's office, Kimbley in tow.

"General, I am here to report."

"Major Kimbley, please wait outside for the Colonel." Remarkably, this order was followed. As soon as the Major left, both inhabitants of the room relaxed noticeably.

"It is nice to have someone here who is not a direct subordinate or someone trying to manipulate me for evil purposes. It makes me feel less formal."

"Whatever you say, _Major General_ Armstrong."

"Ha, play like you really respect rank, will you? I have it on good authority you'd respect a bullet through the Fuhrer's heart if you thought that would do any damage." Mustang's eyes widened, but he didn't say anything. So had the Fullmetal brat finally betrayed him? "Don't worry, I'm on your side, for what it's worth. I'll try to distract that imbecile Kimbley, but I think he might get on your case a little until we can locate Scar for him. Fullmetal is working on that, so it shouldn't be too long before he is located, maybe a few days, a week, tops."

"Fair enough. Oh, before I forget, I bought some flowers recently that I haven't had time to properly store in water – might I use one of the unheated rooms for storage until I figure out what to do with them?"

"Sure. Talk to Captain Buccaneer, by the way, if you have any problems about that. He knows plenty about…flowers. Of course, Kimbley shouldn't be present for that."

Mustang bowed slightly and left. She certainly was a formidable soldier. But on to the next order of business… when could he get a moment to speak to Buccaneer alone, without his new friend? He needed to lay down his communication network back to Central before the army got up to meet him, and this mobilization would take a week – perhaps Kimbley would still be trailing him up to then. This would be a trick and a half. It was not easy to sneak around the place, as Raven's recent disappearance had impressed upon everyone. A late-night foray to meet, especially for a newcomer to Briggs, was unfortunately out of the question. Also, Mustang felt oddly insecure about dealing with the insane alchemist who was now shadowing him. Who knew if his sleeping patterns were as bizarre as everything else about him? What if a 3:00 AM rendez-vous was his general habit? Mustang wanted better proof of security in a conversation with Buccaneer, and hoped he would soon get it – he would work his tail off to make sure he got it. He walked into his room, locked the door quickly to block his human shadow, and flopped down to bed, completely exhausted.

Mustang awoke no more rested than he had gone to sleep, a common enough effect in new places, but this lack of energy was more profound than usual, though he brushed it off. Kimbley, not missing a beat in his new project, was the one who woke Mustang, actually, by an infernal knocking just before Mustang's alarm was set to go off. When Mustang arrived with his escort to the mess hall, he saw Fullmetal, looking more contemplative and sullen than usual. Mustang wondered absently if they had toyed with him as well, and then angrily thought "Not the boy too! I swear, if they mess with one more person I care about, I'm not sure I'll be able to continue what I'm doing. Eventually, I _will_ be spread too thin." Then he snapped back to reality, slightly nodding to Fullmetal and receiving one of the strongest nonverbal messages of his life – something was rotten in Briggs, rotten to the core, and Kimbley was perhaps a large cause, or sign, of the rot. Of course, the discussion the two could have had was preempted by Kimbley's presence, and Roy felt a surging rage wash over him. He needed to shake this ominous and more than irritating presence.

"So! You never answered my question about your sniper friend. What's up with her?" Kimbley began Operation Annoyance.

"Still just friends, is that what you want to know?"

"Aw. Too bad. You two were perfect for each other, really, even back then. She had some grudge against you, I can tell these things. But even so, you two were the two purest fools in the military. You could marry and have a houseful of naïve, pure kids. How adorable they'd be. Of course, Hughes was also pretty pure, but he could kick your ass if he had to, that's the kind of dude Hughes was. Never let the war get to him. Too bad he had to die for our nation to live, but tough shit."

Mustang stood up and left to try to find the Major General – perhaps she could free him from Kimbley for another blessed moment, as she had been able to do the previous evening. As he stood, he gripped the table so hard his fingernails almost left marks, then he sought out the Northern Wall. Instead, he found Alex, who did an admirable job of warding off the incessant drone of insanity coming from Kimbley. After some typically Armstrong-ish antics, Mustang interjected –

"Do you know where I could find the Major General? I need to discuss the plans for the joining of – " He broke off. For a moment he absently felt his neck as if seeking a pulse, then he fell against the table and hit the ground as his eyes fuzzed to black. Kimbley, in a stark Ishbal flashback, jumped back from Mustang, in memory of the falling bodies who still had explosive potential, many of whom had wounded him in their final fall. Armstrong, however, stood quickly and ran to the Colonel, calling out loudly for help.


	5. Keep Kimbley Hunting

**Days Two and Three Part I – Edward Elric**

**Keep Kimbley Hunting**

Ed was out with Kimbley again, searching for Scar. Ed felt conflicted about how to handle his situation – he needed Scar on his side if the girl was traveling with him, since if he attacked Scar, the girl would never tell him the secrets of Rentanjutsu. Also, he hated to agree with Kimbley on anything, even if it was about Scar being an evil man who deserved death. So he wasn't quite sure how to handle any of this… he'd have to think before acting. Also, he couldn't very well have Kimbley and his men around to supervise him much longer; it was too much! Kimbley seemed to have supernatural abilities to annoy superficially, which at times diluted the deep, distilled evil that lurked beneath the surface.

Ed managed to lose the watchdogs again, which wasn't too hard to do, especially since he and Al had split up. His small stature again helped him in some literally tight spots. After a while, he saw Scar and the bean girl, who were unaware of Kimbley's approach from behind them. Ed ran over, clapped his hands and created a huge and thick dome around him, Scar, and the girl. He got their attention with that sleek move, and then proceeded to explain that Kimbley was coming closer, and that they needed to move their respective asses to get out of there alive. Scar, after seeing Ed fight Father, was hesitant to attack, but still was skeptical.

"I don't care for Kimbley's threat. I can defeat him."

"You didn't come here to fight Kimbley! You came here for your own purposes, and in all honesty you should keep evading Kimbley instead of inviting death! I don't want him to kill you, and I need May-Chan to help me fight Father. Plus, once Kimbley finds you, on the off-chance he does kill you, he'll do to this land what was done to Ishbal. Please. For your people, and the hope that nothing like that is ever done again, listen to me."

Scar seemed to recall something, and then said quietly – "I haven't finished my crusade against the alchemists. Even if I could rationalize letting you go, Kimbley isn't someone I can let free. But I will pause long enough to fight this "Father" man. But leave my revenge to me." Ed nodded, and said,

"Well, leave!"

Scar quickly destroyed most of the dome Ed had constructed, then grabbed May and destroyed quite a bit of ground, creating a tunnel where he and May could successfully evade Kimbley's attack. Ed started transmuting like crazy, to improvise a battle scene that could convince Kimbley. He had to make sure that Kimbley kept looking for Scar – if they ever finished this assignment, he knew what would happen next…_carve a crest of blood onto Briggs_. He couldn't let that day come. Kimbley's battle with Scar would decide the fate of the world, as far as Ed was concerned, and he wasn't ready for it.

He'd help Scar, despite their past as enemies. He could fight Scar later, if they both survived this mess. Kimbley believed Ed's ruse – Ed was becoming quite the little actor, making Kimbley believe that Scar had evaded him on his own, after an intense fight where Ed staved off two powerful Eastern alchemists. Ed was almost disgusted at how easily these lies came. Directly after the story was told, Kimbley glanced down at his watch and cursed – "Fuck everything, that bastard keeps getting the better of me. I swear the next time we meet it's our last! I can't stand it anymore! But now I'm due back to report on my progress to Central command."

Ed's relief was manifest in his whole being except for his face, which looked stoic and harsh as ever. They started heading back to the vans, and the call went out to everyone else that the search was over for today. They would be back out at the crack of dawn the next day. The ride back to Northern headquarters was almost silent, except for Kimbley's occasional scathing remark about Scar or blathering comment that withered into nothing. They filed out of the car and went back to headquarters to the Major General in Ed's case, back to jail in Al's case, and back to his office to report in Kimbley's case.

Ed's walk to the Major General was long, and he dreaded telling her that he would need to keep working with Kimbley – he knew she'd rather have him directly under her control than out with Kimbley all the time, but this was the only way for him to operate. Hopefully she'd understand.

"Fullmetal, how has your search gone?"

"The main crew is back, and Kimbley's men will sweep the area behind us for any further news of Scar, but it doesn't look good. In my opinion, this is wonderful news, Major General."

"How is it good news for you to be wasting time out there with Kimbley again?"

"Major General, it will keep him from doing his next job, which will be to do to Briggs what they did in Ishbal. I hope you understand the sensitivity of my situation, of all of our situations. We need to keep Scar from Kimbley as long as possible – keep Kimbley hunting."

"I do understand. All the same, is there any doubt that Scar could defeat Kimbley? He has defeated almost a dozen state alchemists."

"Kimbley has the Philosopher's Stone. There is no telling what he could do. I don't think we can take chances."

"Good point…fine. I give you leave to continue distracting the man. However, he will be given a new assignment starting tonight, so I can have you back until this new assignment is over."

"A new assignment?"

"Yes. I expressed concern to Central that Drachma may attack us here, and they dispatched Colonel Mustang's Eastern units here. Kimbley's new assignment will be to keep an eye on the traitorous Colonel."

"Wow."

"Of course, I'm not certain how faithful he will be to his new assignment, it seems unlike him to enjoy such a boring job. They seem to think Raven would have been a better choice for that assignment, and are settling for Kimbley as a backup choice. We'll have to see what Kimbley decides, since he doesn't know that I read his mail. Of course, once he chooses, we go from there. This, however, does mean that they know about Raven's disappearance, so it's only a matter of time before they send someone to investigate. Let's cross that bridge when we come to it – we won't know what that entails until it happens anyway."

After this conversation, Ed went back to Al's jail cell, but wasn't allowed to stay there the night – from here on out he and Al would be separated as much as possible. He was ushered back to the barracks where he was staying, and fell asleep.

Upon waking, Ed knew immediately that the new day would be awful – you can get those types of feelings from just waking up, and Ed certainly got a strong feeling of crap the moment his eyes opened. First of all, the Colonel would be here, without Riza, who was the only reason that Mustang's presence was ever even remotely palatable. Having realizations like that before your eyes even fully acclimate to light is grating on the last nerve, and Ed grumbled a bit before getting out of the bed. He blandly got dressed and readied himself for another day of Kimbley, but was slightly surprised to see, once he talked to the Major General, that the hunt for Scar was officially off "until Raven was found". Ed wondered how long Kimbley would be content to follow such a bland order as following Mustang around. With a grim laugh to himself, Ed thought that he'd kill himself before accept such an order – it was a wonder that Kimbley had decided to take on the job at all! On a more serious thought process, Ed knew that Kimbley would only wait so long before deciding to follow one of his more interesting assignments – either finding Scar or pulling another Ishbal. Ed had to hope that it was the former, and would work his tail off to make sure of it, but with Kimbley there were no promises. After hearing the day's work from the Major General, he trudged to the mess hall for breakfast.

After he sat down, he saw Mustang being escorted in by a very talkative Kimbley. Ed was still incredibly depressed by all that had happened, and then realized that the Colonel might not know anything of what was going on. He had to warn him, say something – but what? With Kimbley right there – the Colonel passed his table, and Ed tried to shoot him one pervasive, cutting look. It read, _"Do you really want to be witness to _another _Ishbal?"_

A few moments of solid blandness passed. Ed mostly just spaced out, hoping that Kimbley would last a few days so he could coordinate with Scar on how to kill the Crimson Alchemist with no worries. It wasn't that Ed didn't trust Scar's deadliness… but that Stone, Ed feared it with his whole being – Kimbley wasn't just fighting as himself, but as a pure human weapon. He truly _was_ what people thought him. Ed had just finished his breakfast when he saw Kimbley and Major Armstrong jump in alarm, nearly colliding with each other. There was a dull thud, and Ed realized that the Colonel had dropped out of sight. Armstrong was yelling and Kimbley was standing in near shell-shock, which then turned into a flippant disgust. Ed ran over, and heard Armstrong yelling for a doctor. No one in the near vicinity was calm at all, so Ed automatically took charge, dropping to the floor to check on the Colonel.

"Ok, he's breathing. We should get a paramedic here or something – Major Armstrong, can you find one? Or at least find the Major General, who can hopefully find someone?" Ed turned to Mustang, who was completely unconscious, and wondered what the protocol for this was. He wished Marcoh were there, he'd be able to figure out what was wrong, but Ed was completely out of his depth here. Even Winry might have some idea, but she was already working in the automail labs for the morning. In frustration, Ed slapped Roy's face. The slap was harder than he meant – and he had used his automail hand, no less. After all, he was right-handed. That didn't wake up the Colonel, and Ed knew that he was _definitely _out of his depth. A panicked few moments went by when he was angry at himself for not being able to do anything and honestly terrified about what had happened to Mustang. To his relief, the paramedics rushed in, through the steadily growing rubbernecking crowd, and took Mustang away to the hospital. Ed ran over to Kimbley – "What did you do?"

"Nothing! Holy mackarel, why would I _do _anything at this hour of morning? Plus…" Ed didn't stay to chat, and instead decided to take this moment to run over and tell Al what had just transpired.


	6. Fellow Tools in a Vast Game

**Day Two – Olivier Armstrong**

**Fellow Tools in a Vast Game**

"So, Major, the Eastern group is coming in tonight." There was a hint of incredulity and a slight interrogative inflection in the statement. The Major General never thought that the Central Command could act so quickly, that they could play so perfectly into her hands. She needed _time, _and they were giving it to her – the longer to conference with the Easterners before the critical battle, the better. First that idiot Raven, and now the idiots in Central. Keep the morons rolling! She only hoped that she was right about her superiority. Every time she knew of her superiority, she was right, yet she doubted. That was why she was so perfect – she always doubted, double-checked, and then knew. Doubt, double-check, know… the wondrous cycle of her mind. She kept pushing the envelope. New technologies! New ideas! New capabilities! This was why she could defend a nation, and this is why she could defend her headquarters from becoming the next bloodied mark on a map of devastation. It was also why she tended to know exactly how she needed people – she never used people more than she had to, relying on her own brain to figure out the problems of her life and work. Delegation was a four-letter word.

Of course, Ed was now making things troublesome for her. This childish alchemist feared for her stronghold, and wanted Kimbley out of the picture looking for Scar. Central wanted Kimbley looking after her new Eastern ally. Olivier wanted Kimbley dead – preferably by Scar's hand, though if it came to it… well, she'd act if she had to. She wondered if Kimbley realized how many different things people wanted him to do. She wondered if he'd be okay with being played. It seemed surreally likely – Kimbley wasn't the type to care if he was being played. He was ultimately a myopic man, and cared only for what he was doing at the moment, whatever the reason. However, Kimbley liked action, Olivier could tell, and wanted badly to start the next step in his larger, destructive plan. She appreciated Ed's concern, but did not share it. She waited for a response from Major Miles.

"Yes, Major General – the Eastern officers will be arriving tonight, with the bulk of the force coming one week later."

"Of course. And there is also the issue of Central knowing about Raven's disappearance, we can safely assume that Kimbley told them about it."

"I think that we can stave that off when it comes down to it. This won't be the first time that someone inexperienced in the Northern way of life has lost his life to ineptitude. That is what happened."

"My thought exactly. Perhaps you have learned more from me than I give you credit for, Major. Most soldiers would panic in a situation like this, even a few Briggs veterans. This is something, I will admit, a little beyond what even we are used to."

"Major General, you're a good teacher. I doubt anyone under your command would flinch if they had to take on this whole mess alone. The Captain certainly wouldn't, I know. And there are others."

"Thank you Major. You may leave."

"Before I go, may I say one thing?"

"If you have to ask, Major, the answer is either no or you're being uncharacteristically timid."

With a slight smile, the quarter-Ishbalan slid off his glasses to reveal his crimson irises, boldly looking his superior squarely in the eyes – blue eye to red.

"You're a big part of what keeps us together here at Briggs. I haven't yet thanked you for all you've done for us. Just to let you know, you're far above average as a true leader. There's a difference between just a military leader and what you are."

With a rigid jawline, the Major General repeated, "You may leave." This time, her implicit order was obeyed. She sighed. She never wanted subordinates like this. She preferred the cruel Buccaneer. Without question, he would sever all ties to anything and anyone. He held no life sacred, not his own, and not his General's. She knew that Buccaneer felt the same way about her that she felt about all of her subordinates – they were fellow tools in a vast game that had recently become a lot more interesting. Olivier knew that she herself was someone destined to be a main player in the game, but one thing was certain – win or lose in this game; everyone was playing for himself. On occasion, there were sacrifices, but only when the enemy was too close for evasion. This was where she and her brother differed. Speaking of which, he would be arriving that night, something she had hoped to avoid. They weren't exactly estranged, but the fact remained that they hadn't spoken in years.

"I wonder how this is going to go," thought the Northern Wall as she awaited her brother, toying around with Fullmetal's requests and what further plans she had for her own ambition in the face of the new obstacles. Should she really keep trying to become Fuhrer in light of the knowledge that her beloved nation was a fraud? Perhaps her ambitions could be satisfied in Drachma, even, since Amestris was quickly becoming a losing option… but something tied her to the land, something she wasn't quite sure how to name, and she would keep her own goals – at least for now.

"Olivier." The only person in the world who was close enough to the Northern Wall to use her given name entered – her brother.

"Alex. Where are the others?"

"They all dispersed to their quarters, to be briefed on when the meeting tomorrow will be. The Colonel, in particular, went to meet with General Raven."

"Did he. Well, General Raven has been replaced for now by Major Kimbley – the General went missing after a few days in Briggs."

"That's interesting."

The atypical laconic quality of the Major's speech was actually typical of how he spoke to his sister. The two Armstrongs always tried to cut each other short, keeping their own speech short in the bargain. Since the Major had run from the battle in Ishbal, his overbearing sister had never forgiven him. Showing weakness was not something Olivier forgot, as much as she loved her brother. She hadn't been in Ishbal, but she had seen hardships, and could not understand why her brother had cracked so miraculously under the pressure. She would have rebelled, would have deserted or committed treason – all while appearing to be still a loyal servant of her army. She would not have given up her sanity, her chance for promotion, or her livelihood as her brother had done. He had failed. And failure was not an option for Olivier, and it was not an option if you wished to remain in her good graces. It was this deep rift in their relationship that had not yet healed, and stayed very raw and fresh in the crisp, cutting dialogue of their conversation.

"It is more than interesting, Alex, it is true. The General went missing, and now Kimbley will have to look after Mustang."

"I doubt that will go well. Someone should have notified him of this."

The conversation was mindnumbing. Olivier needed to cut it short, and fast, before her mind blew a fuse.

"Well, Alex, good to see you. If you see the Colonel, tell him I would like to introduce him to Briggs." This wasn't a lie – though Olivier wanted the treacherous Colonel to disappear because he was a clear threat to her, she still wanted to meet him. She needed to see how someone so petty and small could even aspire to be Fuhrer. He had to know that it was a job she was more qualified for, more mentally appropriate for. She waited for him to enter. She would make sure that he knew, after one visit, exactly how things ran in Briggs. She knew everything that went on here. No one in Briggs had secrets. And she would make sure he knew that.

To be blunt, it was her fortress, her world. And no Colonel, helpful as his army would be, could change that.


	7. To Break Someone

**Day Two – Central Command**

**To Break Someone**

"Holy _shit_, Wrath. I can't even _believe _you. I thought you wanted to use the Colonel, not throw away your trump card on him. What, you just want to kill him or something?"

"No, Envy. Be silent." Wrath was gaining confidence now – with the Flame alchemist officially his pet project, he could do whatever he felt right. Father had told him so. And not even Envy, a homunculus centuries his senior, could hamper his momentum. He had jurisdiction here. And he would use it. Being part human, he knew what humans cared for – he had some memory of it, anyway. And he could lure Mustang back no problem, using his "inside information". Unfortunately, the plan required Envy's help – and guess who, now that Wrath was finally coming into his own, had decided to get jealous? Guess who was deliberately misunderstanding orders, twisting words to become their opposites, or turning a deaf ear? _What a wonderful time to illustrate your name, Envy_, thought Wrath bitterly.

However. Wrath knew that the mindwarping effects that his plan would have on the humans involved would please Envy, ultimately placating the overly competitive jerk that resided just below the surface of his friend's flippant façade.

"Let me continue, Envy. The plan will go ahead as I have delineated. We all know that humans can endure loss, but can they endure it twice? This is where you come in, ok genius? I promise I'll give you leave to torture the girl if you let my plans go ahead unencumbered."

"Before we – because, you know, I like a fight."

"Sure. Before. Even I understand it would be no fun after. You seriously think that I have no sense of torture? Just because I'm "Wrath", who loves to talk to hear himself and act for action's sake, I understand that having a responsive victim is where the fun comes in! Especially for you, more than the rest of us. But more importantly – you're on board with the plan then?"

"Sure, I hear you." The sly, devious Envy was back, finally reading between the lines and understanding. _Wonderful. _Wrath had never been happier. He was going to break someone. Mentally, emotionally, and maybe physically. On second thought, maybe he could let Envy deal with the physical torture, it was always mental torture that Wrath loved to inflict. He knew, just like Envy did, the burn of one single-minded emotion and the torment it could cause. Wrath would always maintain that wrath was a harder emotion to calm than envy, since envy could sit on brood for a while, but wrath was always red-hot when it struck. Yet Wrath knew that his one-track personality was constant in its pain for him, that only a more complex personality could afford peak suffering. Wrath knew that a human's multifaceted emotional landscape was an arena ripe for _destroying_, something exponentially easier to torture than a singly-minded being such as himself, and in particular someone as weak and vulnerable as Colonel Mustang would be a wondrous target to destroy. Feeling that mental anguish, that cresting wave of despondence, wash over his enemy was a potent aphrodisiac. Perhaps Wrath could even release some of his wrath in the process – something so cathartic he shivered with delight at the mere thought. He could let the wrath out in bursts, enjoying himself as Mustang self-destructed on top of his perfectly crafted nest of lies and despair. This would be fun. As evidenced by his laughing and rocking in his chair, Envy clearly agreed.

** A/N: **So review! If you hate it, I can take it! I'm not afraid of flames, even. Give it your worst! Of course, if you like it I'm cool with that too. Anything you have a problem with, anything you like, just say so! Don't leave me hanging, fic-readers!


	8. Only the Strong Survive

**Day Three: Olivier Armstrong**

**Only the Strong Survive**

Olivier had risen earliest of anyone in Briggs, as was usual. She knew what her responsibilities were as leader, and took them seriously – this morning would be a strenuous time for her, and she wanted to be mentally ready, and fully awake, by the time she needed to be. She readied her answers for subordinates who would doubtless question her motives and actions. She kept no secrets from them, just as she tolerated no secrets among her subordinates. They knew that they could rely on her word, and she knew that they would be loyal. But that would not preclude their probably very vocal questioning of her. Many were wary of Easterners, having heard horror stories from Ishbal, and having trained with the Easterners, who seemed to be a harsh, cruel type of people. The new knowledge that Mustang had been stationed in Central recently had some of the Briggs veterans in an uproar, knowing that it was Centralers who had led the unnecessary destruction in Lior, and who would perpetuate the upcoming violence closer to home. After Raven, many were incredulous that their General would _ask _for a Central-posted officer to join her. Here she would tell her reasons for trusting the Colonel, plus she would set up ways to coordinate with the Easterners, who doubtless already hated the cruel setting of the cold North, but would soon be made to understand the far harsher moral code in force here. However, she knew that while secrets were not permitted in Briggs, it was never her prerogative to indulge in telling other people's secrets. They would have to come to it themselves.

How could she tell people why she trusted Mustang without giving away his secrets? It would be a task that required sleight of hand, but she knew she could play it by ear. At still early hours, Buccaneer, Miles, Henschel, and the rest of her main division entered, none looking happy. Buccaneer opened the question session without ceremony –

"Why on earth did you ask the Eastern brigade here?"

That was easy!

"The Easterners are more adept at offense, and we are more adept at defense. We may need to attack the Central forces that come up to wreak havoc here. An offensive force will complement us." Olivier saw Miles shift uncomfortably – he had a question, but didn't want to ask it.

"Major, if you have doubts, I am here to dispel them." The dark face had a dark expression as he turned to voice his displeasure.

"Major General, I understand allowing Kimbley's presence as an enemy. But you are asking very many State Alchemists here. Eastern State Alchemists, as allies! I am not sure if I can work with them, or they with me."

"They are no more racist than I am, Major. They are military officers and enlisted. They do their job, or they get shot by the firing squad. They will perform here under my orders as they performed seven years ago under the corrupt orders which we know have a deeper purpose than we ever could have imagined." Miles wasn't quite satisfied.

"Colonel Mustang, he – "

"I don't want to know what he did to your family, Major." This was unusually cold, even for Olivier, but it was the gospel truth. She didn't want to know the demons of the Eastern brigade. Thankfully for all involved, the typically loudmouth Captain had another problem, and he diffused the uncomfortable aura in the room.

"I think Mustang's a bad choice too, for two reasons. A – he's leading a brigade, yet he's not a brigadier, B – he's an alchemist. Why do we need a Colonel to lead? You like dominating men so much that you want someone whose testicles will reside in your drawer? You need someone with the right rank, for heaven's sake, which is brigadier general! And anyone but an alchemist, am I right boys?" There was a murmur of assent – Mustang wasn't a popular guy here, Buccaneer was. And he was cutting the Colonel to shreds. Olivier wasn't thrilled about defending someone she didn't like, but she'd have to do it.

"First of all, Mustang is a brigadier, despite the rank. The high mortality of this particular Eastern brigade means that generals as well as their subordinates die all the time. They don't want to promote people they don't like, and Mustang isn't well-loved by the Central Command for whatever reason. We know that Central Command is corrupt, so if he's out of their loop, all the better, wouldn't you say? About his being an alchemist, and his commanding of many alchemists, well, alchemy may help us here. It is a form of technology, as unwilling as I have been in the past to admit that. Especially when fighting homunculi, we may need alchemy. Drachma is our usual enemy, and when fighting them, alchemy is useless; it's completely irrelevant. But our enemy is Amestris-based this time out, and we need alchemists to fight the alchemists they doubtless have. Well, we know they have Kimbley, so it's safe to say there are more."

Miles was still unsettled, but he was warming to her logic, as was everyone else. He quietly said, "I hope you are right about Mustang's aptness for this job. I will work with any Easterner who shows himself above the orders he carried out in Ishbal."

"Good." Olivier said curtly. At this moment a breathless messenger barged in, and handed a note to her. She looked at the letterhead, noting that it was from the hospital. Then she read the note. _Damn, that Colonel has the shittiest timing of anyone I know! Just after I spend my morning defending him, this has to happen. _She handed off the note to the Captain, who was another intended recipient of the letter. As Olivier stoically sat planning her next move, the Captain read the letter aloud, at the urging of all present, after perceiving that the letter wasn't classified. In a booming voice, he intoned –

To the Northern Briggs Command – Major General Armstrong and Captain Buccaneer 

Colonel Mustang has been admitted to the hospital after collapsing in the mess hall at approximately 0900 hours. While he was being transported to the emergency room, he awoke for a short moment, and was heard to say "I need Captain Buccaneer."

"Well, you hear that boys? He needs me! I don't know or like the man, yet he needs me!" There was a laugh from the group, and Olivier felt a boiling rage start simmering. "I'll go on and give Mustang a good Briggs welcome when he comes to, what do you say General?" Olivier snapped her head up to Buccaneer.

"Great idea Captain. You get out of my office this instant and go do that. The rest of you follow him out of here as fast as your feet will carry you." She waited for them to leave, and sat back in her chair.

"I will not be screwed by fate! Blind chance does _not _determine anything in my life do you hear!" She yelled at the air to dissipate the tense energy that had built up in her, and then flexed her shoulders and arms in a characteristically Armstong method for releasing stress. After coming back to reality, and passing through several stages of pissed off, Olivier started thinking again, in the same harsh way as ever. After feeling out the situation – Kimbley! Oh lord! What will Kimbley do now that his new charge was safely stowed where he couldn't do any damage? He would go back to looking for Scar! Wonderful! The scarred Ishbalan would doubtless kill the crazed bomber, however necessary Ed thought it was to halt that confrontation. There was no uncertainty about this, not to Olivier. She had read the papers. And Kimbley, as great a fighter as he doubtless was, could be no match for the deadly force from the East. Not after seven years of rotting in jail. And if Mr. Whitesuit could kill the Ishbalan in the bargain, wonderful. Neither of those serial killers belonged alive.

Olivier started pacing the room angrily to let off more steam, deciding against visiting the Colonel for at least a few days. She'd let Buccaneer do the talking, live vicariously through him. She wished she could be the one in there, yelling her face off at Mustang for making her look bad. How the hell could this have happened? In Briggs, only the strong survive. How could she have picked someone who would be stricken by weakness at this crucial time? What were the odds?


	9. The Most Relaxing Day

**Day Three Part II – Roy Mustang**

"**The Most Relaxing Day"**

_What happened? _That was the first thought in the Flame alchemist's mind upon waking up, but then he soon remembered, and relaxed a little. He hadn't been in a fight, no one had attacked him, and he hadn't had any nightmares while he was out, a thankful continuation of the trend that had started after he killed Lust. He changed the question on his mind to a more relevant one, opened his eyes, and asked it.

"What time is it?"

Falman jumped nearly a foot in the air, and Ed's head snapped up. Quickly flicking out his watch, Ed answered the question quickly – "it's a little after noon."

"So, I must have been out for…a few hours then. That's not too bad. Assuming this is Friday, that is." His voice was calm and even, and no one contradicted him, since it was still Friday.

"Colonel! The doctors are running every test they know of to figure out what went wrong, they'll get an answer soon, I promise." Falman was agitated in the extreme, and Mustang laughed a little.

"Don't promise things for other people, Second Lieutenant, that tends to not work out well. Also, I'm not worried. I'm fine." Mustang sounded convincing enough, but Falman still looked in shock.

"Sorry for losing my head a little… I just didn't expect the first time to see you again to be like this. I thought maybe we'd be in a huge losing battle, which would be bad enough, but I never expected this."

"I see." Mustang nodded, feeling uncomfortable but too tired to argue. _I hope Riza doesn't find out about this_, he thought sadly.

A certain red-clad alchemist piped up - "Colonel, I understand why _I'm _calm right now, because quite frankly I won't have to pay you – remember, those 520 cenz – if you die here, but do _you _understand that you're in the ICU? You seem completely fine with this turn of events." Ed flipped his watch back into his pocket while posing the question. "Well, that's my food for thought, I'll be back later, I have to go back out to Kimbley. I snuck out on his investigation, and I have to be back before he stops in for the midday report." Ed walked out, and Mustang was tacitly thrilled. Falman's dour look deepened, and he sighed profoundly.

"Look, Colonel, the doctors said it was a sharp decline in blood pressure, close to shock, that made you collapse. They said the root cause could have been sudden, it could have been developing over time, and that their search for the root cause might be over today, but it could take a long time, perhaps longer than the affliction would allow…"

"Second Lieutenant – please stop." Falman did as he was told. The four words, though a request, had the timbre and overall ring of a military order. And they were obeyed. For a few moments, there was silence, and then a visitor appeared. A man with a large legal pad, a fancy black fountain pen that looked more "wielded" than "held" in his calloused hand, and a hat that managed to conceal much of his face walked in.

"Drew Pearson, reporter for the Amestris Times. I just have a few questions, if you'll indulge me, and you feel up to it."

"I am more than up to it, but for _indulging _you, that is a no, and is a standing no. I will never talk to reporters." _How dim does Central think I am? Sic this guy on me, see what news you can get him to report about me, and if I am leaking unseemly information, kill Riza! I will not indulge him, I don't care how much he badgers!_

Drew wasn't so easily deterred; he was an honestly dedicated reporter, whatever sinister motivations he might have.

"Why?" Drew's question was polite. He was unruffled at the belligerence, which Mustang proceeded to dial up to an extreme, hoping the man would ultimately back down.

"Because I never do talk to reporters!"

"Oh, but you do. I remember reading some priceless Mencken articles about you seven years ago. You spoke rather eloquently about our nation, I remember. Patriotic yet prudent, you had the perfect tone. I'd like to recapture that."

_Mencken. Perfect. _

"Quite frankly, if you pattern yourself after Mencken, I'd sooner pull out this IV and watch what happens for the hell of it before cooperate with you. He was a bloodsucking leech, and he was in the pay of Central Command, a completely biased journalist with no scruples." Mustang laid that out as bait – Mencken was jingoistic, but hardly in the pay of Central; he didn't need to be bought to spin out his pro-war filth. Drew's stunned expression betrayed him – he was indeed in the pay of Central Command. Being the straight man to newsworthy actors had dulled his practice in cunning when it came to hiding his own actions. Hiding opinions, hiding personal tastes, sure, but hiding his own actions – since when were _his _actions being scrutinized? He was unskilled at hiding his loyalties, and Mustang was skilled at seeing where loyalties lay. It was a no-brainer. Knowing this new information, Mustang could shut the man up.

"Here. I know what Central wants to hear. Patriotic yet prudent, you say? How's this – 'This escalation with Drachma calls all loyal Amestrian citizens to vigilance, but not to heedless aggression. I will man my post with that in mind, as soon as I am able. I will be in action before any operation is mobilized, I swear it on my honor as a citizen and soldier.'" He spat out the words sardonically, they came out with a mechanically rehearsed sound. The reporter nodded and left (after jotting down some shorthand in impeccable penmanship). He finally took the hint, apparently, though there was no finality in his exit. His jaunty hat-tap as he left, a modified salute, was clearly meant to indicate that he'd be back.

Mustang leaned back onto the pillows, relaxing a little, not realizing how tense he had become while that man had been in the room. "Thank god he's gone." After a few deep breaths, he flatly intoned, "I hope they get me back in the game soon, Second Lieutenant."

"I hope so too, sir."

Then a light went off in Mustang's brain – Buccaneer! I need to speak with Buccaneer! "Where's Captain Buccaneer!?" the sharp cry and leap upwards to a sitting position made his head pound in pain, and he gingerly placed it back down.

"Oh! He came a while ago, actually, less than an hour after we got here. He left, of course, but he can be produced here again, I think."

"So that wasn't a muddled dream, I actually did ask for the Captain."

"Yes."

"Good." _I hope I didn't divulge anything else in a half-catatonic state; that might get troublesome. Well, I was probably more awake than out when I said that, so I'm probably ok. _"So, Second Lieutenant, you aren't going to ask me why I asked to see someone who I don't know?"

"I trust your judgment sir. If you asked for his presence, I'm sure there was a reason. Plus, I have leave to stay here all day, and if I'm not ordered out of the room during the meeting, I will find out the reason behind it. If I have to leave, then I'm not meant to know, and asking you now serves no purpose."

"You're quite right. Please, if you will, go and request Captain Buccaneer's presence as soon as possible – say that I am awake and ready to receive him." After Falman's exit, Mustang took stock of everything – his surroundings, his company, and his health, the last being the most depressing prospect of the three.

The surroundings weren't unpleasant – the hospital, though clinical, was hardly the glaringly harsh place that hospitals are known to be. The lighting was soft, and the bed was comfortable enough – and thankfully, the room was private. That was essential. This was better than your typical officer's lodging in the army, thought Mustang dryly.

His company, the most important part of the equation to him, was also a positive element in his situation. Kimbley was gone, out hunting again with Ed – that was perfection itself! This would allow Mustang to talk with the Captain, and lay down a trusty path of communications back to Central. This could likely be done in one sitting, since the network was already quite sophisticated; it was pliable enough to handle the drastic move of one element in its web of points. Falman was as reliable as ever, despite his consternation at seeing Mustang so apparently hopeless. His intelligence was razor-sharp – he knew how to think, that man. Not so for the other, higher-ranked and less aged person in company – Edward Elric. Mustang sighed and dismissed all other thoughts about his company upon thinking about the annoying brat who he'd come to feel protective of.

Health – that was what had landed him here, wasn't it? Well, the lack of health, particularly, was what did it. Upon inventory of all bodily parts, he didn't feel any pain, at least nothing sharp – nothing that couldn't be attributed to the two large self-inflicted burns on his side. However, his entire torso felt wrung out like an old rag. And he was exhausted. He vaguely wondered if he was capable of standing up, and decided against trying it out just yet. This would pass, it would pass… eventually he'd get up and be fine, of that he was pretty certain. But for now, he'd have to make this seclusion work for him. While he still felt unable to move or even breathe effectively – he could make this work!

Falman returned about an hour later with the large, intimidating Captain in tow. The trek back to Northern headquarters from the hospital was not too long, but the Captain had been in meetings and automail restructuring, so it took the full hour to get him back to the hospital for the meeting. During this time, a nurse visited the room and gave the Colonel a full report on what the doctors were doing. It's true, he was in the ICU, but there was nothing to worry about – most causes for sudden loss of consciousness were no big deal. Of course, those related to severe blood pressure drops were typically more of a big deal, but not even all of those were a death sentence. Mustang politely nodded, waiting for her to leave. He couldn't, and didn't, think about his own mortality right now. There were bigger fish to fry.

When Buccaneer entered the room, Mustang apologetically requested for Falman to leave. When the door was closed, Mustang decided that he immediately needed to take the upper hand, knowing how much of a disadvantage he had in this conversation. He started with an aggressive and boldly accusatory move –

"Captain, I take it there are no bugs or taps in this room, or on your person? That could get most inconvenient."

"Do you insult me? Of course there aren't." _Good. You're on the defensive, like a good Briggs soldier…of course, your defensiveness will also help me gain the upper hand._

"Good. Well, long story short, you do communications work for the underground."

"How can you possibly – " Buccaneer was cut short. "You are one of them, goddammit I knew that I should have put my foot down, it's hard to with the Major General, but you sometimes have to just put your foot down! You've cracked our little network? Well, I assure you that if you make one iota of trouble for us here, the same thing that happened to Raven can happen to you."

"I know that you're the communications man because the Major General told me. And I have a right to know. I'm Don." At this, Captain Buccaneer completely softened his tone.

"Well well well! The great and powerful Don. You're finally coming into your own, aren't you? Well, I can tell you one thing. We here at Briggs had no idea who you were. I doubt even Olivier knows you for your true leanings. We never learned the true identity of the codename Don – any of the codenames, actually. I have to say, when we first caught wind of this underground movement, we thought that Don was just a promotion-seeking, arrogant jackass! But then, of course, we realized that up here in Northern we miss the true crap of what's happening in Central. I suppose you know more about that, then. And then we thought to let you keep operating, and leave well enough alone. You've never had real enemies here in Briggs."

"I'm glad to hear that. I just need your assurance on one thing – you'll keep my communication network stable, and I will be able to get information from my contacts here? You have the capabilities to do that?"

"Yes. I'm not strictly the point person on that, but I'm the liaison between the above-board Briggs operation and the underground, many of whom aren't even military, as I'm sure is the case in Central as well."

"Good. Well, I think we're done with this little chat, I can free you to continue with your automail."

It was patently obvious that Buccaneer had been interrupted mid-session – the guns on his arm, while shining impressively, looked spectacularly unfinished. Riza would have a better idea than Roy would have as to what was missing on them, but there was enough for Mustang to intuit that the Captain should get going. He departed after a quick shout – "Well, Don, good to meet you! Sorry that I campaigned so heavily against you. I thought you would be just another suit from Central who wanted to kill us, so forgive me."

"Yeah, no problem," Roy mumbled as the Captain exited and Second Lieutenant Falman entered, obviously curious but not going to say anything. Eventually he did speak up, but not about the Captain's obviously confidential conversation with the Colonel.

"So, Colonel, I do have one question that I think you can answer. I think that it's slightly inappropriate to be making a bet with an inferior officer. You have some sort of wager with Fullmetal?"

Mustang grinned slightly. Oh Falman, he thought. Ever by the book. "Yes, it would be inappropriate to have a wager with Ed about anything. But it's not a wager – he's just in debt to me is all. 520 cenz in debt. He said he'd pay it back when pigs fly."

"Sir?"

"When I'm Fuhrer."

"Oh. Well, he believes in you."

"Or he's just trying to keep my – "

Mustang broke off contemplatively, remembering Ed's continuing conditions – he'd borrow more money and wait for a democracy to be formed, and then there was a mysterious third condition which he wouldn't reveal. _How did he know that I meant to start a democracy? Did I ever tell him that? I certainly didn't tell him my plans beyond that… how would he know to have any further conditions? The court-martials, my execution – does he really mean to -_

"Colonel?" Falman tried to snap Mustang out of his glossed-over state, and he came back to reality.

"Oh, Second Lieutentant, I think I'll try and catch some sleep again, I'm exhausted from all of this, and I think you should try and rest too, if you really were given today to be here. This may be the most relaxing day we are to see for some time."


	10. The Thrill of the Chase

**Day Three Part II – Edward Elric**

"**The Thrill of the Chase"**

Ed tried to find Al at the prison, but Al had been permitted by Major Miles' proxy to go see Winry in the automail workshops before the day's manhunt, where Ed finally found Al and told him and Winry of what had happened earlier.

"So he just collapsed? Is he okay?" Winry's concerned voice was the first to speak.

"I think so. Kimbley denied doing anything, but I'm taking that with a grain of salt. He's evil." The last part slipped out before he could stop himself. Al sighed, then quickly –

"Brother! Is Kimbley still with the Colonel?"

"I think so, why?"

"Because he might decide to go back to searching for Scar now!" Al's logic made Ed's heart freeze. He sat down heavily on the nearest bench, brushing off some errant automail tools before placing himself in the seat.

"If he keeps searching, eventually those two madmen will meet, and who knows…" Ed trailed off. He glumly looked his knees for a while, then glanced up. The first thing he saw upon this upward glance was Winry. In that one crystal moment, Ed's toughness cracked. The strain of trying to appease Kimbley enough to save Winry, and now this new shock of a stricken comrade, added up. The sight of Winry's ever-patient face was the straw that broke the camel's back.

"Winry! I am so sorry! For everything! Forgive me! Forgive me!" Ed was in a tightly controlled hysteria. Tears coursed down the bridge of his nose as Al looked on and Winry hugged his shaking shoulders.

"I have nothing to forgive you for. I came North myself! I will be fine here, so will you. You can stave off Kimbley, you can. If you don't want him and Scar to fight, that's fine. That's fine. Listen to me, Ed." Her voice took on rhythmic, maternal overtones, and Ed pulled himself together almost as quickly as he had fallen apart. The only signs to belie the quick storm that had passed were redder than usual eyes.

"Yes, yes. If he returns for us, I will simply do what I had planned to do – keep him on the prowl as long as he can stand it."

"Brother – speak of the Devil," Al commented as one of Kimbley's guards came to collect them. Al's prediction was right. They were to set out again. Kimbley had tired of his incapacitated charge. Ed stood up quickly, pretending to be very interested in the edge of his jacket's sleeve. He and Al urgently persuaded Winry to stay behind where it was less dangerous, and finally won the argument. Ed was happy about this for many reasons – the methods he was going to use to keep Kimbley focused would shock her, he was sure of it. Ed thought back to what Riza had told him about Ishbal. Kimbley takes pride in his work, and thinks others do as well, even when the work is hateful, or even evil. _Perfect. _People with predictable responses to things are wonderful, aren't they, thought Ed as he and Al followed their guard back to where the cars were waiting with a grimly attendant Kimbley. He felt like a lawyer – never ask a question you don't know the answer to, try and find people you can play like harps. If someone uses a certain strategy on others, they will likely be susceptible to it themselves.

Kimbley and Ed rode in the same car out to the location that was determined to be close to where Scar was hiding. The ride over was short, but Ed was determined to make the most of it. Here goes nothing, he thought. After a deep breath meant to look like a sign of pure adrenaline, he dove in –

"Another search. A purer form of skill demonstration I don't think exists." Kimbley raised an eyebrow at this. Ed seized on his incredulity. "Really don't believe me?" Ed leaned in for the kill – "Where else do you have the thrill of the chase, a target that is as smart as you, and such satisfaction at every turn? What else affords that? Straight target practice can't be as good, because you're not dealing with a target cognizant of your approach. Here, a true fight, yields most fulfillment. Most – intensity. Even on a day where no confrontation takes place, the thrill of the hunt pervades every instant, every moment. The danger is more than enough to create an edge, even when no sparks fly. And what fun are the sparks without the sense of accomplishment that went into setting up the perfect moment? The setup, the manhunt. You know I'm right."

Kimbley looked shocked. He was silent the rest of the way, but Ed noticed that Kimbley's gloved hands were locked onto each other with what looked like a deathgrip. As the two alchemists stepped out of the car, Kimbley spoke for the first time.

"I didn't realize you had such mettle. Who thought you'd help me realize the joys of my job – I usually help others realize the deeper joy in things. I was so obsessed with the big picture, I forgot about my own needs. How could I ever have tried to rush this job – no. It must be done _perfectly._" Ed closed his eyes and stifled his sigh of relief that his ruse had worked so well. Just keep rubbing it in the whole day, Ed, he told himself. Let him know that he's doing what he was born to do. And keep him from realizing that he's getting _nothing _done.

Ed was more successful than he knew. Kimbley actually started getting more lax in his surveillance of Ed, and became more reckless, leaving his guards behind and throwing himself into the chase with such vigor as he hadn't mustered in quite some time. After a little over an hour, Ed managed to slip away again (perhaps his size wasn't as bad as he made it out to be), and moved in the direction of the large white building on the outskirts of the headquarters area. The hospital was in between the dwindling residential areas and the military base, and thus served both worlds, civilian and military. Ed reached the building at half past eleven. He found his way to the emergency room, and asked for where Mustang had been taken. After a long bureaucratic interlude that involved signing things (with a fake name so Kimbley would not be able to use this to prove that he was running out on the job) and being taken through pretty much every hallway in the place, Ed found the room.

He knocked awkwardly, then entered to find a still-unconscious Mustang and a very harried Falman in a chair. Falman's eyes were wide open, but his jaw was slack, and his face was a perfect blend of shock and boredom. He nodded to Ed deferentially, and said nothing. Ed had never really had a sense of how devoted Mustang's crew was to him. He vaguely thought that Falman's dejected expression must be similar to the expression he wore when his mother lay ill and he couldn't do anything. In a situation like this, Ed knew what Falman needed – someone to blame. Ed remembered that blaming his father had been quite therapeutic during the times when a scapegoat was needed in his life. So he decided to open with this –

"Second Lieutenant, I asked Kimbley if he had anything to do with this. He claims, of course, that he didn't, but I think foul play may have been involved here. Everything just seems off." While Ed was trying to give Falman a psychic boost, this was no lie. This did seem fishy – someone had manipulated events. People don't just start a new, dangerous mission loaded with ulterior motives on all sides and then collapse for no reason. But if Central or their cronies wanted Mustang out of the way, couldn't they have waited for a battle, where no suspicion would crop up? Ed felt vaguely unpleasant at the thought that he now could think like the murderers in Central, but continued thinking. After all, knowledge is power, right?

Falman sighed and turned to Ed. "Shouldn't you be out with Kimbley?"

"Yes. But I slipped away."

With a thin-lipped smile – "Because you're so tiny I'm sure that was easy for you."

"WHAT THE HELL!"

Falman managed to shush Ed gently so as not to disturb Mustang, and Ed sputtered quietly without yelling for a good three minutes before being able to move past Falman's jab.

The two sat quietly for a few minutes. Ed hoped that Mustang would awake, but also equally hoped that he wouldn't notice any bruise on his face where he had been slapped. Ed nervously played with his watch, looking at the time every minute or so, then placing it back in his pocket. He could only stay until a little past noon, and then he had to rendez-vous for the midday report. By the time Mustang did come around, he had only a few minutes he could remain, so he affected a casual tone, mentioned his debt simply because it was the first thing that came to mind, and left the room.

Ed leaned heavily against the wall, lost in thought. Sure, the Colonel had always annoyed the daylights out of him. Everyone knew that! But there had always been this idea in his head that his superior was somehow inviolate. But now – now. If he had been independent before, he sure as hell was now. No longer would he trust Mustang as a parental figure in his life, annoying or not. There are only so many times trusted adult figures can disappoint you! His mother, his father, Winry's parents, Hughes – now Mustang? For his lousy job, he couldn't even stay strong so Ed could superficially hate him properly?

No. Ed wouldn't allow himself this train of thought anymore. He was an adult – almost sixteen. This was it. He prepared to continue his long slog with Kimbley as he pushed himself to a full standing position and marched out of the hospital.


	11. To Take Charge

**Day Four – Riza Hawkeye**

"**To Take Charge"**

Riza got up early that day, actually starting to feel accustomed to her new life. It was a horror, like in those wartorn places where children are accustomed to constant military presence, and walking down the street requires a bulletproof vest. Despite the horrifying necessities of this life, people must live, and live they do. It was with this type of disgusting, inhuman acclimation that Riza approached her sixth day after getting her new job. This was her first day off, finally a weekend had arrived to free her. This free day seemed like it would be even more mindwarping than a typical day at work for her – having a whole day without the mundane officework would give her time to think about the evil which she was now serving, despite it being completely against her will. She thought back to her time in Ishbal. How often would she be held hostage to do evil's bidding? Was this her life? She was dressing for the day when she heard a knock at her door.

"Who is it?" She pulled out street clothes in her bedroom and heard a muffle from the door. "I can't quite hear you, hold one second…" She walked toward the door.

"It's Jean!"

"Jean! Hold on a minute, I have to finish getting dressed."

"Ok – wait! before you do!" Riza halted her gait towards her bedroom.

"Yes? What do you want?"

"Riza! Do you get the _Times _or the _Journal_?" Riza sighed.

"The _Journal, _you know that."

"I thought you'd start wanting to soak up whatever news you could get. Remember, only the _Times _has a fully up-to-date Northern News section."

Riza jumped into her bathroom – it was closer than her bedroom – and yanked down her bathrobe, pulling it on. She ran to the door, opened it, and yanked the paper out of Havoc's hands. Havoc whistled a grade-A catcall – "Yo Riza!! This is certainly more of you than I ever expected to see!" She pulled her robe tighter about her and ushered Havoc into her apartment, while escaping to her bedroom. She read the proffered (and in less serious situations, interestingly alliterated) article while dressing.

Colonel's Condition Critical After Collapsing in Northern Headquarters By Drew Pearson 

Colonel Roy Mustang of the Eastern provinces, known to most readers as the hero of Ishbal, was reassigned to Northern Headquarters to aid in a possible defensive Northern campaign against opportunistic Drachmans. However, after less than 24 hours of the Northern assignment, the Colonel collapsed in the mess hall and has had to be hospitalized. In a brief window of time today when the Colonel could answer questions, he claimed that he would be back in action by the time any presence on his part would be necessary. The doctors seem less sure, and stress the criticality of the case. Wellwishers and admirers have come to the hospital throughout the day, and the entire Northern headquarters area seems abuzz with the news. The Northern base eagerly awaits the return of the military hero to his position.

The article was short, one of those minor little sidebars to the main stories, and Havoc had clearly sought out news of their former boss – a casual reader wouldn't have found that paragraph. It was clearly an article banged out by a hack of a reporter desperate to milk a story from the air – Drachma, honestly. Riza listlessly finished her morning routine and walked back to her entryway to see Havoc again, handing back his paper. It was all she could do to block out the unwelcome memory – _you can join your boss in no time… _she had lost her head upon hearing bad news of Roy once – it would _not _happen again. She held back the tears this time; she was perfect. She followed Roy's orders – _if you're my aide, be stronger than this. Never stop thinking._

"Thanks, Jean."

"Look, Riza, I'm sure he's fine. He's always fine – he got us out of that situation with Lust, he saved us two as well as himself. He can pull through this. I just thought you'd want to know."

"I guess you're probably right. Still, everything feels so much worse now that I'm immobile here in Central. If I were under his command still, I could…" she tapered off.

"Ha, sure. I'm still under his command, but what can I do, right? Well, I _can_ do wheelies now that I've had this chair for a few days. Which I guess is cool. But of course I can't do anything useful."

Riza exploded angrily – "Jean, if you had any imagination at all, you could be infinitely useful! To be brutally honest, people don't view people who are, well, _physically incapacitated_, as a threat! You could be twice as useful as I could! Around me, everyone sees a threat, they don't let me get anywhere with them, I've been around that godawful homunculus Wrath for days and he never lets his guard down, ever. Believe me, I watch for a chance. It never comes." There was a palpable silence, and then a cautious word from Jean.

"Ok, Riza, I have to run to my physical therapy session, but I'll think about your suggestion, maybe I'll come to you for help? Or you'll come to me? I still have a room in the hospital, I've just been moved, and I'm obviously more mobile now, since I'm here! I'd like to be useful again…" The last sentence was fairly quiet for the boisterous Havoc, and he slowly wheeled himself away down the hall. Riza sighed and then cursed, kicking the wall forcefully. She felt the need to shoot something, grabbed her two nearest practice guns and headed off to the range after setting out some food for Hayate. This should let off some steam.

She walked into the shooting range casually, like this was any other practice session. This was a civilian shooting range, not a military one, she was trying to avoid the military at the moment. She vented every feeling of rage into that target, every feeling of sadness and terror, every feeling she had left. She was using a circular target, not a humanoid one – these were always easier to abuse, less disturbing. After a while, when she felt almost numb from venting all of her frustrations, she started shooting in a pattern. One on the left, for Breda. One on the bottom, for Fuery. One on the top, for Falman. Another on the top for Mustang. And two in the center – her and Havoc. _Too bad we don't have a contact in the East…that would be someone who could still remain in touch; we have ties back to the East. We need contacts with our people, damnit! Wait…_

Riza realized something for the first time – the Colonel might not come back from Briggs. He could die there, either of some infirmity, as seemed bizarrely likely, or from the ensuing battle. She had to take charge. Waiting for him to return so she could tell him of some idea was useless. Mustang's dream – he didn't own it, at least not all of it. She owned it, Havoc owned it, Falman and Breda and Fuery and even Armstrong – they all owned it. She had to take charge with what time she had. She abruptly packed away the firearms she had brought and decided to hit the streets. Mustang had told her casually about the bars, the women. She knew that his playboy façade had something deeper and more insidious inside it, though he never fully explained it to her. She knew about only one location of his activity – the bar of a certain Madame Christmas. She walked over, thankful beyond measure that she was in steet clothes and that as far as she could tell, no one had followed her. She knew that she couldn't be caught, or Mustang might be killed by those houmculi. However, she knew the codetalk, which the contacts might know as well. No one should be suspicious, really, if she kept the code as her shield. She went into the bar, and sat down on a stool close to the heavyset, aggressively made-up woman behind the bar.

"What's your poison, honey?"

"Oh, I don't know. Something strong?"

"We have plenty of that. How strong you want it?" The woman tried to loosen the atmosphere with a casual tone, but Riza would have none of it.

"As strong as you have." Riza's tone was of a conversation-ending quality, and the made-up woman knew this.

"Haha, ok." As Madame Christmas poured the drink, Riza thought back to the one arguably positive, or at least not wholly bad, change Ishbal brought to her: She could drink a sailor under the table because of that war. She was 17 back then, technically still too young to drink anywhere in Amestris, but she had no problem getting access during that mess. She drank as much as Roy or Maes had, really, though she'd rarely ever been drunk. Whatever drink she received today would be only enough to get her slightly buzzed, tops.

"So, are you Madame Christmas?" Riza asked, very quietly, as she took the shot glass in her hand.

"Yes. Where have you heard that, I wonder? And who are you, exactly? Wait, don't tell me – you're Elizabeth?"

"No – " Riza hesitated. "Wait a moment. Do you know a Jacqueline?"

"Yes! I heard that she was really hurt in a brawl recently! And with a guest of honor, no less… how sad. I hope she's okay."

"Um, she's doing better, I hear."

"That's good."

"Do you know if I'm in the same department from what… um, what's his name again… told you?" Riza just realized that she didn't have a codename for Roy – he must have one. But she had never used it, since she only ever called him in his office, where he couldn't be heard responding to odd names.

"You mean Don?"

"Sure, Don. How could I have forgotten Don… What did he tell you?"

"Oh, lots of things! That's how I was able to tell it was you – he has described you to us to the last detail! He usually only comes here if you're not available to be with, actually. I doubt any of us will ever forget when he came in here lamenting that you'd been stolen by another man! Who thought Don could ever be jealous, right?" It was at this that Riza finally downed the shot, and as expected, it barely even made her blink.

"I don't think he's jealous… but you do know I'm in the same department, right?"

"Yes, I do. If you can prove that you're Elizabeth."

"I'm not Elizabeth! I'm Riza!" Riza exclaimed, realizing that if the shape-shifting homunculus had followed her, she couldn't be found responding to odd names, just the same way that Roy couldn't on the phone.

"Of course honey, I should have realized… my brain is wandering! Well, prove yourself already!"

"Good. I'll do that, then I have some news about Don, and then I want to get down to business."


	12. This Useless Confinement

**Day Four – Roy Mustang**

**This Useless Confinement**

In the world of things needing to get worse before they get better, Roy felt like a wreck when he woke up the next day. He was grateful that Falman had left, leaving him to wallow in misery alone. The previous day had brought exhaustion – today, exhaustion had brought along pain and vertigo. Vertigo! How is that even possible, lamented Mustang as he observed that he was in a bed clearly on solid ground. Even his surroundings, which had seemed so nice the previous day, appeared to him obnoxiously bright in their whiteness. His grumpiness was enough to make him almost not hear when the nurse came in again to tell him some apparently good news. He was now no longer in "critical" condition. All of the potentially fatal possibilities had been ruled out. Mustang hardly felt like jumping for joy. For some reason, the whole left side of his face was throbbing with a superficial sting that managed to annoy beyond all other issues. In the late morning, he was dying for word from someone, anyone! Wouldn't Buccaneer come tell him what was happening – above board or underground? He'd be grateful for any word.

At eleven o'clock in the morning, just as the painful fog in Mustang's head was starting to clear, a messenger walked into the room, saluted, and handed a paper to him. It wasn't in an envelope; it wasn't even folded. Roy could tell that protocol had been dispensed with – for good or bad reasons, he couldn't tell. Then he looked at the writing, hand-done, with a childish penmanship quality. _Ed, possibly?_

Colonel –

Scar has killed Kimbley.

That was all. No other words. But that was all that was needed. As the messenger looked on, waiting for his dismissal, Mustang carefully (but still quickly) pushed off the blanket and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. He slowly leaned himself off the frame, to a standing position. _That was a mistake!_ The typical rush of blood to the head when standing up was nothing compared to what Mustang felt now. It was as if he'd run miles, and then had been unceremoniously knocked about the head a few times for good measure. He leaned heavily on the desk near him, and used a modicum of momentum to propel himself to the chair on the side of the room, making sure to move the IV with him so as to avoid yanking the needle from his arm. Gasping like a swimmer who had ventured a little more deeply into the water than he had bargained for, and now sputters to the surface, he called over the messenger, who, wide-eyed, did as he was told.

"Listen to me," he rasped. "Get me a piece of paper and a pen for a reply from off that desk." He referred to the desk that he had used as a pivot in his move from the bed to the chair, upon which there was a large blank pad. The messenger quickly handed the paper and pen to Mustang, who scrawled out a response, in only slightly better handwriting than he had seen from Ed's message.

Major Armstrong - I have received word that Major Kimbley has been killed in action. If this is true, then now is the time to disclose to your sister all of what we wish to get out of this meeting here in Briggs. If Kimbley is still alive, use your discretion, and destroy this note.

After the messenger left (with Mustang's shouted instructions that only the Major see the note), Mustang almost felt like crying from anger. All the utility of being confined in this hospital had now vaporized. Sure, before now, he was useless back at the fortress, with Kimbley liable to report to Central about every suspicious move. But with Kimbley dead, he could be much more helpful back at the base. But it would take a day or two at least to recuperate enough for the journey back. _Let's make it a day only_, he thought pragmatically. Then, in a less practical and more self-indulgent moment – _DAMNIT!_

The day passed much in the same manner, with Mustang cycling through pragmatic determination and gratuitous self-pity. There was nothing for it but to wait, and he knew that. If he couldn't walk, he couldn't very well be of much use.

At a time in late afternoon, Captain Buccaneer came into the room, snapping a very bored Mustang to attention. The Captain quickly and noisily closed and locked the door, and then produced a neatly folded telegram.

"It's from Central," said Buccaneer gruffly.

"That's not possible," countered Mustang. "I'm the only one with the authority to send telegrams from any Central location in the underground." Then, as a horrible thought dawned on him – "Oh, no! Give me that!"

Dear Briggs Branch –

I have heard word from Karen that Don's merger with a store owner in Dublith was a success! Keep your ears open for further good news of the business, and good luck with your own endeavors!

Elizabeth

Buccaneer was nonplussed at Mustang's disturbed tone as he read the very upbeat note. Both men knew how brilliant the news was – "store owner" meant Lieutenant General, and "Dublith" was code for the South. This meant that now the South as well as Grumman's Eastern command was now in covert support of the movement. It was still only one-fifth of the entire army, but it was huge. Buccaneer couldn't fathom why "Don" would be so upset at his own good fortune. Plus, Kimbley's death (news of which was fast-moving) was icing on the cake, wasn't it?

"Why the long face?"

"Um, this is a problem. Elizabeth could be in danger. She isn't really part of the underground. Neither is Karen, by the way." _Damn you Kain! I know you've done a good job growing the movement, but you're in danger…I told you to survive greedily!_ "Captain. We both know what this means. Our underground is growing."

"Ha! 'Our' underground! That's cute! You and Briggs have a common enemy. That's more than enough for now. But there is no 'we' or 'our' here."

"Understood, Captain." With a gesture indicative of finality, Mustang motioned for Buccaneer to leave. He had to think this new situation through.

So Briggs wasn't strictly friendly. That wasn't so surprising, given the flower-seller's warning – _Olivier only wants your army. She'd rather you just disappear. _But he knew the Major General's legendary ability to keep her friends close, and he knew that he wouldn't be written off as an enemy immediately after their common enemy was defeated. And even if he was – he had two army Corps in his pocket, where she only had her own division! But Briggs' status as friend was rock-solid so long as they both were against the planning in Central. And for now, both his underground and the Briggs operation were in agreement on that.

There was a bigger problem – Kain and Riza were both now active operatives on the underground, which made Mustang shiver. Civilians were one thing in an underground. They were relatively protected; the army has less ability to track their less visible movements. However, military assets in an underground were always compromised, whatever their superior skill. They had the watchful eye of the military on them at all time. This was dangerous, for them as individuals, as well as for "Don," their leader. Mustang wasn't too concerned for his own well-being – not that he ever was, but in this situation it was a particular non-issue. After all, Central was already well aware of his sedition, and was letting him live. Seeing action among underground operatives, however, might spell disaster for the lower ranks. Mustang remembered the example they made of Hughes. Who didn't?

Thinking of this was no use! There was no secure way to call off Riza and Kain. Just as Mustang was settling down to a boring evening alone with some newspapers, maybe a crossword or two, he realized something. His subordinates would not have needlessly endangered themselves if they hadn't thought he was in real danger of not coming back. They were acting without his approval because they wanted to perpetuate the underground even without him. Part of Mustang was proud, insanely proud. And part of him had never felt darker or more alone in his life. With a grimace, he propelled himself back onto the bed and hoped that when he awoke the next day he'd be ready to get up and be free of this useless confinement.


	13. Get the Hell out of Briggs

**Day Four – Olivier Armstrong**

**Get the Hell out of Briggs**

Olivier was in her office after the preliminary meeting with the Eastern brigade. She and her brother had delivered a fair cock-and-bull story about Drachma, and assured the Easterners that they were merely a precaution, but that Briggs was on full alert until they were convinced the threat had passed. The Eastern brigade had been disgruntled at being moved around the nation to such an unwelcoming place, but was professional enough to convince Olivier that she hadn't made a mistake. These were her natural complements in the field. These were her allies. She, her brother, Buccaneer, and Miles were in the office discussing precisely when and how they would break the news to the Easterners that their fight was actually with the Central army. Surely they would lose some support among the ranks when they said this.

"At any rate, we must eliminate Kimbley before we tell the Easterners. Once this gets out, he'll find out and tell Central somehow." This was from Miles, who had been let off the hook on the search party for Scar today, his spot taken by Henschel. "I would volunteer," he continued bitterly, earning a stifled snort in response from Buccaneer.

"I think that we all understand how important it is for Kimbley to be eliminated," said Olivier, glaring at her men. She could tell that their flippant disregard for human life, even evil human life, was getting under her brother's skin. She just wanted to keep listening to the conversation until an idea hit her. But she couldn't think clearly with her brother in the room – he was this gigantic presence, literally and figuratively, clouding her judgment. She felt herself getting angrier quicker than usual, and with such an awareness of her emotions, she knew that any decision she made in this state was likely going to be faulty.

Olivier started, slowly but surely, to get a grip on things, tuning out her intrusive brother like turning down the volume on mental static. Her thoughts turned to Kimbley. Accidental death was no stranger to Briggs, especially among headstrong greenhorns like the Crimson Alchemist. If he blew something up which subsequently killed him, perfect. Accidental death felt better than disappearance for Kimbley, seeing as even his men knew how reckless he was. Just as she was about to broach this idea, a nervous messenger ran into the room and handed her a note. With a sly grin, she dismissed the messenger and called the room to order.

"Eliminating Kimbley won't be necessary. Scar has done that for us." For a moment, there was shocked silence. The group disbanded after the damage control for Kimbley's death was decided upon, and Olivier was left alone for a few hours, which melted away into late afternoon before she even realized. She had loads of work, which cleared her head from having to deal with her brother. From time to time a messenger would come in and give her some post about the goings-on of her fortress. This was her life. She was good at it. She could easily move up from her current position to Lieutenant General at Northern, and then that's a short hop, using politics and the press, to the Fuhrer's position itself. She had the ruthless ambition necessary; that was a personal trait she had long since established. She had the competent mind of a leader; that was something she was continuing to develop, sharp as she already was.

"Olivier." Wonderful. For all her ambition and competence, fraternal love was hardly on her list of emotional assets.

"Yes, Alex? What is it now?" She barely hid her exasperation, sighing as she swung in tight arcs on her chair.

"It's Colonel Mustang. He has decided that with Kimbley dead it is time for full openness between us. He wants to fight the Central army with his brigade and your division."

With a sardonic smirk – "How lovely of the Colonel to be so open with me. I think that I will pay him a visit tomorrow. And I'll let him know how open I really expect him to be with me. And I'll also tell him _exactly_ how much stock I put in military dispatches from the bedridden." Olivier saw her brother's eyes darken with fear and anger, but only for a moment. Then, with the crisp tone of a purely professional officer, he said,

"I will tell him of your plan to see him then." Then he left, clearly angry but not about to say anything.

Olivier smiled upon thinking of what she'd say to Mustang. His weakness was inexcusable. She'd tell him something very simple – Get the hell out of Briggs.


	14. That Which I Cannot Change

**Day Four – Edward Elric**

**That Which I Cannot Change**

"Damnit! Where the hell is Kimbley?" Ed ran after the Crimson Alchemist. He was having trouble keeping up with the man today, which was odd considering Kimbley's complete lack of sleep the previous night. Ever since Ed had talked with Kimbley, the man's sanity seemed to be shot. Adrenaline and intensity defined Kimbley now. He could not help throwing himself headlong into the search for Scar, no matter how hopeless the fight was. Ed couldn't understand Kimbley's unholy energy that was rendering him reckless. Ed wondered to himself if _this _alchemist who he now saw could pass the psychological tests required of the military.

The fact remained that Ed had lost track of Kimbley, which was very bad. If Kimbley somehow reached Scar before Ed did, the world could be over rather quickly, which was something Ed wanted to avoid if he could help it. Ed needed to confer with Scar on how to kill Kimbley. The pragmatism of Ed's reasoning was upsetting to him, but perhaps this was what being an adult felt like. Maybe you didn't ever _trust _people, you just used them. Maybe that was the key to adulthood that he was missing. Well, if that were true, then now Kimbley was someone who Ed merely wanted out of the way. And Kimbley was on the lam. Ed ran down an alley that seemed like a promising lead.

"Kimbley! Kimbley, where the hell are you? You can't leave the search party behind – we're supposed to be in this together!" Ed yelled at the top of his lungs, apparently forgetting the fact that reason was now lost on his psychotic coworker. He kicked a small stone on the ground in frustration, thinking that maybe he'd take this opportunity to try and find Al instead (distinctly easier, given that Al would be with a few guards, and was considerably more conspicuous than Kimbley). However, at this moment, Ed heard a loud explosion from not too far away, and quickly ran towards it, quickly transmuting a light shield from some wrecked wood. When he got to the scene, Scar was there, nursing a gruesome-looking but superficial head wound. Kimbley, the likely perpetrator of the explosion, wasn't visible as yet through the haze of dust. Ed crouched behind his shield, hoping that the fight was over. The dust started to float away on the light wind, and Ed saw the grisly picture before him.

Kimbley's twisted body lay face-up on the bare ground, clothes torn in many creative ways – some gashes led deeper into his skin and exposed flesh wounds, some were merely fabric-deep. Some were clean cuts that implied use of a blade or edge, while some were jagged and unplanned, looking more like the chaotic work of a disorganized brain. Ed tried to look anywhere but directly at the body, and saw a spear, probably transmuted by Kimbley during the fight, and a small red stone just inches from Kimbley's right hand. He picked up and pocketed the stone, and then knelt next to Kimbley, looking away as he took the Crimson alchemist's wrist between his fingers and felt for a nonexistent pulse. Finding none, he shook with relief, trying to steady himself as he rose to a standing position.

Ed fingered the red stone in his pocket, hands still trembling. He saw Scar, looking shaken and nearly unbalanced, physically and figuratively. To distract himself from the death scene, he turned to Scar and asked,

"You've killed before. Why is this one so upsetting to you?"

Scar looked up from his reverie, still lightly dabbing the trickle of blood from his head, and said in an otherworldly voice,

"That bastard thinks that we'll go to the same afterlife. He said, just before he died, that he knew, whichever religion was true, we would be in the same afterlife, we men who had killed for our own purposes. He asked me to stay alive through this whole fight in Amestris, then report to him in the afterlife on who had won. He said that I was the only man he had ever met who was sure to spend eternity with him." With that, Scar sat down, facing the still eastward sun.

Ed felt like his brain was going to explode. He hated Scar so much – that hadn't changed. Yet there was a new blinding emotion in his head. He wasn't sure what to call it, since it wasn't an emotion normally found in "blinding" form. But it was gratitude. Ed hung his head, thoroughly confused. How could he feel grateful to Scar? Who cared if Scar, through his murder of Kimbley, had freed Ed to again seek Mei-Chan for methods to defeat Father and restore his brother? How is this possible? Ed almost laughed, but stifled himself at the last moment, making a weird half-snort, half-cough sound.

So maybe it isn't as simple as trust or distrust, use or be used. Maybe people can feel many different things about one another. Ed almost cringed at the absurdity and sappiness of the thought, but he knew it was right. When he had thrown off the idea of parental heroism with which he had esteemed the Colonel, he hadn't felt like he quite had the answer. But now, he did have the answer. Ed couldn't do everything alone. Sometimes he'd need help, even Scar's help. And that help wasn't something he could brush aside, even as an adult. Ed grimly sat down and transmuted some paper and a writing utensil, and started scratching out a short note to Mustang. Mustang would be just as happy about Kimbley leaving, especially once he was back in action. Ed, with a pragmatic glance of his train of thought, quickly supposed that to be something that would happen soon. He couldn't account for all things that might happen, so he would mildly hope for the best.


	15. House on Fire

**Day Five – Roy Mustang**

**House on Fire**

The IV was gone today, and if Roy had anything to say about things, he'd be out of his prison by nighttime. He was putting on his uniform, glanced at the eagle on his lapel, fingering the insignia slowly. He gritted his teeth at this, knew that he would have no leverage over the terrifying, towering two-star general he would be talking with today. Home team advantage meant nothing when "home" was a hospital room. Major Armstrong had told him a rather bleak story of how the Major General would act towards him upon her visit.

"I look like a ghost," Mustang grumbled quietly as he noted his pallor, even more pronounced than usual. Throwing off the white hospital gown, which only accentuated the ghost-like look, he donned the uniform, hoping that he could scrounge together some, _any, _form of conversational capital.

Olivier entered with Miles. _Great, now she has the advantage of numbers too. _She set up shop by placing her jacket over the chair, while Miles stood nearly at attention in the corner, with a good view of the entire area. Instead of sitting, the Major General left the room without a word. Mustang did a mental double take, but realized that it was probably just meant to throw him off. He couldn't see another meaning in her actions, unless –

"So, Colonel, let's just make sure you know that you aren't in command here," said Miles calmly.

"Ah, I see. So it's to be a good cop, bad cop routine. Make sure I know my place. Well, I do. My place is leading my men. I never intended to intrude into the General's command, and I hope she wouldn't do the same with me."

"No, it's no good cop, bad cop routine. Goodness, you don't know Briggs. What I say, I say of my own accord, and not because the General micromanages everything I do. But sure, you know what, I'll be your bad cop. If anyone in Briggs has reason to hate you, I do."

"Look, Major. I won't apologize. I don't have the right to. I don't have the right to tell you to not be angry either. I don't recognize the name Miles from my Ishbal district, but I understand why you're angry. Fine, you remember and I don't. It's the past, and I can't dwell on it. You don't seem like someone to dwell on it either."

"I don't. But that doesn't mean I have to trust someone who killed pretty much half of my family. I know, it was during a battle, and yes, I _understand_ that. But I don't have to like you. And I don't."

Before Mustang could even begin to dig in to this argument, the Major General stepped into the room, sitting in the chair, and motioning for the other two to sit. Miles found the stool first, and Mustang was left with the corner of the bed, which was higher than the seats in the room, and gave him a bizarre feeling of a silly kid, playing king of the hill. He acutely wished this meeting could be done in a more dignified manner.

"Colonel. I was just talking with the attending on this hall. No one seems to be sad to see you leave, you've apparently been quite the annoying patient."

_So it's to be small talk before business? Fine. _

"Yes, I can be annoying." _Don't give her anything. Let her initiate conversation. Don't play into her hands. She came to meet me in the hospital for a power play, let me use what I have!_

"Well, I won't be sad to see you leave either. I am going to formally request your personal transfer back to Central."

_What! No. Not before even arguing me into a corner! Is this how things work here?_

"Why." He said it as a statement, flatly. He didn't need to be hysterical, after all, she used the future tense. His transfer wasn't already in the works. He still could talk his way out.

"I need your army, I never claimed to need you." _So it's that simple to you! Get rid of your over-ambitious comrade because it suits you. I hope you realize those tactics can only get you so far, Major General._

"But my army needs me."

"Not if you're in this state they don't. Today your men don't know if a day they start under your command will end in the command of some second-rate Lieutenant Colonel. I can lead your men perfectly competently, don't worry."

"They don't have to worry about me."

"I beg your pardon, but what I've seen from your Second Lieutenant, they do."

"Second Lieutenant? Right, Falman…"

"Colonel, if I thought they worried for no reason, I wouldn't care. But it's an actual concern. I can't have a subordinate - "

Mustang glared at her seethingly, and she amended – "or _ally_ – who shows any weakness, however small. I've transferred subordinates for less than this. Understand it is not personal. I wanted you here with your army, I honestly did. But for now, we'll have to settle for this."

"No we won't. I have shown no _weakness. _You don't know the circumstances."

"Well, what did the doctors tell you was the cause of your stay here?" Olivier seemed patient enough with her questioning, but had the tone of a lawyer merely presenting an open-and-shut case. Mustang felt heated anger rise in him, but stifled it.

"They said that the burns in my side may have caused it if they led to any internal bleeding. However, they couldn't find any internal bleeding, and that's because there wasn't any."

"Really. So you claim that the people who know what they are talking about don't know what they're talking about."

"Yes."

"Explain yourself."

"I won't."

"Yes you will, or you'll get transferred."

Mustang gritted his teeth. He might have to explain everything, and he didn't really want to.

"I can't. I could get arrested, maybe court-martialed if Central thinks that I acted against their interests."

"Ha! I have done more offenses worthy of a court-martial than you can even wrap your brain around, Colonel. Most people in Briggs have. Tell me what you know before my patience runs out."

"Only after you give me some leverage. Why would you be court-martialed? Equivalent trade." Mustang didn't know what possessed him to say that, except that he had a bizarre feeling that she would actually tell him something interesting. Finding someone as treasonous as himself was a thrilling concept all of a sudden. Olivier started her litany, looking and sounding angry enough to break Mustang with her bare hands.

"Fine! You alchemists… as if I have _ever _paid an equal price to get something. Here goes – I've hoarded military-issued weaponry and uniforms, I've had an affair with a senior officer, I've killed a senior officer on purpose – not the same man, though perhaps it should have been – I've disobeyed orders, I've released prisoners before they were done with their sentences. I have more, but I can't even recall all of them in order."

"That's fine. I understand, you've trusted me with some sensitive information, I'll now do the same." Mustang had been given so much to think about, he basically put his brain on autopilot to tell his story.

As soon as Mustang left Riza's house the day of his transfer to Northern, he knew where he was off to next. He needed someone to help him get out from Raven's thumb, and he knew that Raven shallow enough to fall for something like this. He would have to call on that old war buddy, Dr. Knox.

Mustang knocked a few times on the heavy, unfriendly-looking door. He saw lights and activity in the house, so the doctor was certainly there. So why was he kept waiting at the door for easily over a minute? Just as he started to fantasize about burning the goddamn door down, it opened. Mustang walked in quickly, eager to get out of the cold air. While his friend stood stone-faced still near the open door, obviously hoping that the Colonel would immediately leave without spending any further time, two other people appeared in Mustang's view. A distinguished, gracefully aged woman of Knox's years and a bright-eyed young man a number of years Mustang's junior approached, both wearing smiles.

With a surprised bow, Mustang quickly turned on his "dashing officer" mode for the woman. "You must be my friend's family. I am – "

At this he was cut off.

"He's NOBODY!" thundered Knox. With a gruff and unnaturally strong swipe of his arm, he pulled Mustang into a side room away from the smiling (and now thoroughly bemused) family.

"What do you want, Mustang?" Knox growled.

"Calm down! Trust me, you'll like this plan that I have," Mustang collected himself and put away the dashing officer, resurrecting the more direct personality he used with Knox. "I need you to help me end up in the hospital. I need something that will leave me out of action for a few days _tops_, but definitely enough to conspicuously land me out of the way. I can't fake something; it needs to be real. I figured you'd help me."

"You're acting stranger than usual… but if this involves hurting you, I'm in."

"I knew I could count on you, Knox…so, have an idea?" Mustang urgently pressed the issue.

"Um, you need it now?"

"Yes, I do. I wouldn't have come this late if it could have waited."

"Alright… let me think a moment…" Knox tapped his foot on the ground while coming up with an idea. "Here's a thought. You don't have high blood pressure, do you?"

"No." The dark eyes narrowed as he tried to think through what Knox was contemplating.

"Perfect. You don't have high blood pressure – but I do! ("That's not surprising," a mumble, came from Mustang) Take this," Knox said, flipping a bottle of small white pills from his pocket to Mustang. "You're… 5'8'' around 150, right?" Mustang nodded, in shock at how easily Knox had done the measurement.

"Perfect…if you take two every six hours, your blood pressure will nosedive over the next 36 hours. Around then it could knock you out for anywhere from a few minutes to a few hours. But as long as you get to a modern hospital within a few days of it knocking you out, you'll be fine. Any decent hospital can treat the symptom of low blood pressure – then you stop taking the things, and you'll be back to normal before any hospital will know what hit you."

"You're making this too easy for me, Knox! This is almost criminally easy. Thank you. I can't even say how much of a help this is."

"Shut up and get out of my house before I remove you. Then you can end up in the hospital right now!"

"Noted…" Mustang left in a hurry.

"And that is what I did."

"You didn't take into account the ramifications of such a plan, for your _allies_?" Olivier seemed to have dropped the idea of transfer, though the confrontational tone of the meeting hadn't gone.

"Of course I did!" Mustang was indignant. "But I hardly had the luxury of worrying about that, did I? If your house is on fire, it doesn't matter how many other problems it has, you have to put out the fire first. General Raven was the fire."

"Understood. Consider your place in Briggs safe. For now." Olivier stood and left, swiping her jacket off the chair and not waiting for a salute. Miles followed without a word.

Mustang fell heavily back onto the bed, thankful for a moment to relax after what had been quite a mentally taxing morning. He'd get up to leave in just a moment, hopefully he wouldn't encounter any argument with the attending. He breathed heavily, getting up his energy. He shook off some light palpitations which he had no reason to suspect were caused by anything other than Knox's methods.


	16. En Garde

**Day Five – Olivier Armstrong**

**En Garde**

Well, this could be interesting. Olivier didn't know what her brother had told the Colonel about their meeting today, but it couldn't have been kind. You don't tell a major who's also your brother exactly what to say when delivering a message – he's hardly some errand boy. So, he might have even cursed her out to that useless Colonel. No matter – Mustang was not long for Briggs anyway. And he would be confrontational – this would be her first true battle of a conversation since she submarined Raven, so she was looking forward to it, in a weird way.

"Miles, let's get this over with," she said curtly, throwing on the large Briggs-issue coat. He was already in his coat, and merely nodded and started walking to the door. He waited for Olivier to walk through the door, then followed. The car ride over to the hospital was quiet, tense, in a way. Olivier was excited and interested, hoping for a give-and-take that would hold her interest. Hopefully Mustang could be even more intelligent than Raven – that was her cautiously optimistic best-case scenario. Leaning an elbow on the window of the back seat, and glancing over to the thin glass that separated her and Miles from the driver, she decided something.

"I'll give you a moment to discuss your concerns with the Colonel before I fire him. I know you'll want a chance to."

"That isn't necessary, General." Miles seemed rather calm, cool. Whatever doubts he had held in the past days were gone now. He knew how to work through things himself, and had done so – the perfect soldier, the perfect _Briggs_ soldier. Self-sufficient. Good.

Olivier marched into the building, ignoring the bureaucratic requirements of the place. She simply found the floor, without speaking to anyone. Miles followed suit. Olivier burst through the door impressively, without stopping for a salute, and threw the heavy coat over the sole chair, glancing at the lack of seating in the room. _Interesting… there is only one other seat in the room, the stool by the desk. This conversation's decorum is shot to hell before it even begins. Well… even though Miles didn't request this, I'll let him have his moment to chew out Mr. Flame here, since he might not get another one. _

Olivier left the room before actually taking a seat, and found the doctor on the floor to pass a few minutes, gather her battle plan.

"So I'm here to visit Colonel Mustang," she said neutrally.

"Ah. He's being discharged today. He's requested it, and we're not really going to clamor to keep him here."

"Really," she stifled a smile. _I'm not either!_

"Oh of course!" The harried, disgruntled doctor nodded aggressively. "He's incredibly annoying, acts like he knows everything, doesn't listen to us!"

"Interesting." _Huh. Acts like he knows everything. This might get truly combative. Nice._

She nodded to the doctor, then walked back to the room, judging that enough time had passed to let Miles say his piece. More likely he had said nothing, just waited for her to return. She again made her way into the room quickly, taking the chair she had claimed, and gesturing quickly for the men to sit, at a moment designed to disadvantage Mustang. _He's further from the other seat. Great. Shake a man's foundation, and the rest isn't far behind._

"Colonel. I was just talking with the attending on this hall. No one seems to be sad to see you leave, you've apparently been quite the annoying patient." _No need to open a friendly conversation with the heart of the matter. Let's have him hang himself._

"Yes, I can be annoying." Olivier paused, waiting for Mustang to ask why she had come. But the man wasn't stupid. If there was business, he knew it would be forthcoming, apparently, without his prodding. _Wonderful. A man who knows his chess._

"Well, I won't be sad to see you leave either. I am going to formally request your personal transfer back to Central." _Fine. You wanted an end to the conversation? I gave it to you._

"Why." _Oh? Still calm. Well, you're taking this with dignity, I may as well show you the true nature of Briggs._

"I need your army, I never claimed to need you."

"But my army needs me."

"Not if you're in this state they don't. Today your men don't know if a day they start under your command will end in the command of some second-rate Lieutenant Colonel. I can lead your men perfectly competently, don't worry."

"They don't have to worry about me." _Oh, trying to play such a hero? Don't pull that shit with me!_

"I beg your pardon, but what I've seen from your Second Lieutenant, they do."

"Second Lieutenant? Right, Falman…"

"Colonel, if I thought they worried for no reason, I wouldn't care. But it's an actual concern. I can't have a subordinate - " Olivier noticed Mustang's instinctive eye-narrowing. _Oh, offended by that? Choke on it, Mustang!_

"or _ally_ – who shows any weakness, however small. I've transferred subordinates for less than this. Understand it is not personal. I wanted you here with your army, I honestly did. But for now, we'll have to settle for this."

"No we won't. I have shown no _weakness. _You don't know the circumstances."

"Well, what did the doctors tell you was the cause of your stay here?"

"They said that the burns in my side may have caused it if they led to any internal bleeding. However, they couldn't find any internal bleeding, and that's because there wasn't any."

"Really. So you claim that the people who know what they are talking about don't know what they're talking about." _I see what that doctor was talking about earlier. _

"Yes."

"Explain yourself."

"I won't."

"Yes you will, or you'll get transferred."

"I can't. I could get arrested, maybe court-martialed if Central thinks that I acted against their interests." _Aw, what a pity. You've broken rules. Tough! A soldier who hasn't broken any rules is hardly a soldier. Definitely not someone worthy of Briggs_.

"Ha! I have done more offenses worthy of a court-martial than you can even wrap your brain around, Colonel. Most people in Briggs have. Tell me what you know before my patience runs out."

"Only after you give me some leverage. Why would you be court-martialed? Equivalent trade." _WHAT! Ok, breathe, Olivier. Breathe. Just throw him a bone. He still won't have anything on you, no one is witnessing this except Miles, and none of this is news to him anyway. _

"Fine! You alchemists… as if I have _ever _paid an equal price to get something. Here goes – I've hoarded military-issued weaponry and uniforms, I've had an affair with a senior officer, I've killed a senior officer on purpose – not the same man, though perhaps it should have been – I've disobeyed orders, I've released prisoners before they were done with their sentences. I have more, but I can't even recall all of them."

"That's fine. I understand, you've trusted me with some sensitive information, I'll now do the same." _You alchemists… is this how you work? How wonderful. How idiotic._

Mustang launched into his story, told in a flat, nearly journalistic, matter-of-fact style. Throughout the narrative, Olivier was partly appalled and partly intrigued. What a strategy. Though in all honesty, she understood how someone so crunched for time might end up coming up with something so ridiculous. But not someone as clearly foresighted as Mustang. Well, with this development, he was more useful to her as an on-site ally than he'd be stationed in Central. God, _ally. _When did that happen?

"And that is what I did." Mustang finished his strange tale.

"You didn't take into account the ramifications of such a plan, for your _allies_?" _I may as well level with him. He's more intelligent than I could have guessed._

"Of course I did! But I hardly had the luxury of worrying about that, did I? If your house is on fire, it doesn't matter how many other problems it has, you have to put out the fire first. General Raven was the fire."

"Understood. Consider your place in Briggs safe. For now." _Yes. If you work with me the same way you worked with the idea of Raven, we'll get along fine. _

Olivier left with Miles following close behind her, again dispensing with formalities such as salutes. The ride back to headquarters was charged with intensity.

"So that didn't go as I had expected, Major."

"Same, General." Miles seemed barely present. "I talked to the Colonel about, you know."

"Did you." Olivier's eyes widened.

"He has repented, I believe it. I don't like him, but that's hardly something to avoided. I can work with him, that's certain."

"Good." For some reason, Olivier felt herself desperately wanting to work with Mustang now. His unexpected candor and intelligence was interesting to her. It truly was… almost _fun _to have this experience of working with an ally. It was comforting to know that it was only for a while, but she was beginning to realize that the interim may not be so bad.

A/N: So if you've made it this far, you must have an opinion about the fic! I'm begging you, please review! There are fics that are 200 words that have more reviews than this one. I do appreciate that you've read this far – but if you have, then tossing off a review will hardly be a huge time commitment relative to what you've already done! You know you want to!


	17. The Makings of a Coup

**Evening Four and Day Five – Riza Hawkeye**

**The Makings of a Coup**

The evening after Riza returned home from Madame Christmas' bar was torturous. It wasn't that she feared her new job – why should she be any more afraid of this undercover job than her real one, when the codetalk made it sound like she was discussing _ridiculously _boring family gossip instead of planning a military coup? No. The torture came from the darkness. It was already past sundown when she started for home. It's only five o'clock! I hate winter, Riza mentally noted. She waited only a few minutes outside in the dark for a cab, but it felt like an eternity – a small child walked by her with his mother, and in a childish gesture tugged at her coat. "Look mom! It's the same coat as yours!" A strangled cry arose in Riza's throat. The child's mother saw Riza flinch, and apologized politely for the child's naïve, inappropriate gesture. Riza tried to say "it's ok," but words didn't come back to her in time, and she made a conciliatory hand-waving gesture instead, which she hoped conveyed the same message. Riza grimly gritted her teeth and continued her wait. This must be what it feels like to know that snipers are aiming at you, she thought. They can take you down, you can't see them… for the first time, she fully realized how disgusting her job was. Thank god she had something to fight for. Something that could negate all that time she had spent as a cowardly agent of darkness, cloaked in shadows. Thank god for the bringer of this purpose into her life – Colonel Mustang, who finally let her be herself. No! As she stepped into the cab and quietly directed the driver to her apartment, she forbid herself to think of the man.

That tends to work…tell someone not to think of pink elephants, and what do they inevitably think of? The Colonel dominated Riza's thoughts until she got home. Riza's mental train drifted through Roy-related moments, and absently floated back to the last time in her life she heard someone's medical condition described as critical…

"Miss Hawkeye?" The doctor walked into the waiting room where Riza and Roy were sitting silently, one empty seat between them to diffuse the awkwardness. Riza, only fourteen years old, though composed enough to more than match Roy's eighteen years, responded,

"Yes?"

"I am sorry, but we have done all we can do. I'd say he has a week before he finally gives out, maximum. I'm so sorry. You can go in if you want." Riza merely nodded. Roy snapped to attention and started to go through the first four stages of grief all at once. After pleading with the doctor to do more for a good five minutes, Roy succeeded in running the man from the room. The distraught alchemist turned toward Riza hoping for validation of his hysteria. It was at this point that the fourteen-year-old noticed that she had been clasping her hands together in a tight grip. It looked like she was praying, but it wasn't until this moment, when Roy yelled,

"What just god would take this man from the world?" that Riza realized what she had been praying for, and a cold thought ran through her head. _What just god would have kept my father alive this long? He should have been dead a long time ago._

Riza sighed as she leafed through her wallet to pay the cab driver. _Don't think of death, _she told herself. _Roy hasn't given up on life yet. He still has ways to go, things to do, causes to champion. Not like my dad, not like him at all. _

"Have a good night, miss," said the driver kindly, sensing that Riza needed a gentle word.

"You too, sir," quietly slipped through her lips as she closed the door.

The next morning, she awoke and thanked every god she could think of that she had both weekend days off of work. It was the calm lifestyle of a military bureaucrat; she knew that there were weekend people to do her job when she wasn't there. What a different idea! She wondered if she could appreciate this type of job if she knew that the Fuhrer wasn't evil. Maybe. Having weekends certainly could help her social life, maybe she could get one at all.

Then she stopped pondering her life in a time of success – she knew in her heart of hearts, and in her rational mind, that it wasn't ever likely to be. For now, she would bide her time, do her legitimate job, and hope for good information from the underground. She put on her coat over her street clothes, and made to leave for the weekly shopping, when she heard a knock at her door.

"Riza! Me again!"

"Yes, Jean! Right there!" Realizing that she would want to share her new knowledge with Havoc right away, she pulled her coat onto one arm and went to the door, opening it widely and swiftly.

"Hi! Come in, come in." She turned away to put the coat back in the closet, and heard a gasp. "What? What is it? Are you okay?"

"What is _that?" _asked Havoc, pointing wildly at Riza.

"What is what?"

"That! On your back!"

Now it was Riza's turn to gasp, realizing that she had forgotten, in all her years of not having people in her home, to keep her back fully covered when in her apartment. Outdoors, it was a no-brainer, but inside, she often wore her other clothes that did not quite fit the bill for outside wear. And when layering, it was no big deal. Her coat would have covered her back quite effectively.

"Um, it's a tattoo."

"Riza. I know what a tattoo is. I mean the burn. What happened?"

Riza stayed silent for a moment, and Havoc quizzically craned his neck towards her for an answer. Then, his eyes widened.

"My god. The Colonel did that to you."

Riza was too shocked to deny it. She gaped at the triumphant Havoc, and needed a few moments before managing to sputter,

"But, but… how did you…"

Havoc collected himself, and slowly explained –

"Riza, you can't see the burn on your back. I can. But I can see my own. I know what real burn injuries look like. They're pretty rough and gross. Burns are deep, and horrible looking. Yours and mine aren't. They are definitely different, and with a signature I'm sure I could spot in my sleep. I get so freaking bored sometimes, with just Breda's hand weights to keep me occupied. I guess I took that time to sorta see the Colonel's handiwork up close." He sighed lightly. "Interesting stuff."

Riza sat down on the small couch, avoiding Havoc's eyes. "Jean. This isn't what it looks like, the Colonel didn't use me for target practice or anything. He was destroying the tattoo, at least part of it. He said he couldn't do all of it, the burn area would be too large to promise that I wouldn't have any permanent damage from it."

"Wait, _what?_ He couldn't do _all _of it? You wanted that? For all of the tattoo to be gone?"

"Yes, I did. It's a long story, but I wanted it gone, and the Colonel was the only one I trusted not to screw it up! Jean, we have more important things to discuss right now."

"Yes. Well, this conversation isn't over."

"Fine. But we have some good information now, something we can't ignore. My burned tattoo is quite ignorable for now."

Havoc looked upset at this, but quieted down.

"Alright, here goes nothing," said Riza, with a tremulous thrill in her voice, definitely happy to be off the mortifying topic of her burn. "Madame Christmas is ready to take the two of us into the exploratory committee of the underground, but we first both need to execute one low-risk mission, where we must seek out a member of the civilian underground and transport some message. The target will then judge us on our effectiveness and inconspicuousness. If we pass the test, we become members of the exploratory committee, meaning we can actively try to recruit, though of course there will be further guidelines to learn. Most of it is just the code, so we're fine. Other stuff has to do with logistics, making things look normal. I hear that the Colonel typically looks like he's on dates, often dates where he ostensibly gets dumped, because he doesn't like talking to the same point person often. I'm sure most of the training involves learning stuff like that. Giving us an MO."

"Wow."

"Yeah, we're finally on the inside of the makings of a coup, not just the politically smooth part." Riza re-pinned her hair in a swift motion, realizing that the official portion of the conversation was over, and searching absently for any topic that would keep Havoc from asking more annoying questions. She soon realized a perfect one.

"Well, now that that's out of the way, I've been wondering – have you heard from Breda? I hear from Fuery every now and again, and of course Falman keeps writing these awful, boring letters. But Breda never, he's too erratic to remember to contact us, I'll bet."

"No, I've heard from him," countered Havoc. "He's absolutely miserable. He's teaching new recruits in Western, sounds like an awful match for him. It makes me laugh just to think about Breda training newbies."

Riza's eyes widened with stunted amusement. Breda, teaching? That was priceless. The military really didn't have a place for them, did it? Not when just trying to spread them around, not really. They'd have to get lucky to find a good new position, speaking of which, Riza interjected –

"Well, Breda sounds typically misanthropic as usual. Fuery, I have to say, is doing well. He was commissioned, according to his last letter to me. Of course, mediocre technology in the South basically means that he has been regarded as a god among men there. Second Lieutenant Fuery. I hear he even has the ear of Lieutenant General Lockheed."

"Riza, you'd think we were all being held down, working for the Colonel. I mean, Falman _and _Fuery both commissioned within a month? I mean, between the two of us we should be able to make General by next weekend!"

Riza leaned back into the couch, finally relaxing, untensing. With a slight smile, she leaned forward and called out Black Hayate, who had been in her bedroom, out of the way. She rubbed his ears and slickly said, "You wouldn't be a very good General – you're too busy looking for a woman to lead." It was the first time she had jabbed at Havoc's womanizing, and it was gentle, but definitely a different dynamic. But the dynamic between her and Havoc had changed – he knew about the thing. He knew something about her from her vulnerable, unpleasant past. She was a new, strong person. If he could know her little secret, there was no reason why she couldn't glancingly mock his tendency to think with his "other brain".

Havoc wasn't really offended, and the two of them chatted almost _pleasantly_ about their dispersed colleagues until Havoc needed to leave for physical therapy. He left with a unpleasant comment –

"Well, Riza, one of these days I'll ask you about why you asked the Colonel to burn you. It's not something I'm going to let go. Just saying, you know."

Without waiting for a response, he continued – "But for now – just thank you. I meant it when I told the Colonel to throw me overboard. I really did. But you guys, especially you and Breda, you've saved me. I thought about doing something pretty stupid right after I realized I couldn't walk anymore. But trust me – I don't think about that anymore." He was out of earshot before Riza could respond.

Riza closed the door, all thoughts of errands forgotten. She could go later. It wasn't important enough to be a care for her… she was thinking about her new relationship to the underground, her new relationship to Havoc. Her new relationship to life – things were changing, for better or for worse. It was just the beginning of a new style of insurrection, as well as a new style of private life. And was that feeling a faint, slight glimmer of Happiness?


	18. This Last Good Turn

**Day Six – Jean Havoc**

**This Last Good Turn**

He wheeled into Riza's workplace to meet her for lunch, as per an agreement from earlier that day, and was immediately on guard. The horror stories about the place had him on edge and nervous. He saw Riza filing some papers and was struck by how wonderful her poker face was. He didn't think he could hold up so well in such an obvious pressure cooker, where the slipups of others meant certain death, and a homunculus held sway as boss.

"First Lieutenant! I believe your lunch hour started one minute ago, we should hurry if you're going to make it back in time!"

"Oh, yes, of course." She seemed flustered, and spoke quietly and absently, as if she was being reminded of some fact that she had forgotten. Perhaps her façade was a little more porous than Havoc had first thought. She was clearly distracted. Despite this, she swiftly got up, threw on her coat, and walked out just a tad too fast for Havoc to keep up.

"Hey, slow down there First Lieutenant! My arms are killing me from what I have to do in physical therapy, I can't wheel around as fast as you can run!"

"Sorry, I didn't realize."

This was a different Riza, he didn't like it. Hopefully she would open up like yesterday again at lunch. They walked and wheeled out of the office in silence, Havoc starting to lead the way as they walked in the direction of the restaurant. A small boy ran from the office building in their direction, though apparently not directly to them, since he started a swift run across the street. Riza's head snapped instinctively toward the disturbance in her peripheral vision, then her eyes widened.

"Selim!" She cried out and started to run after the child. Havoc realized that the child was directly in the way of a fast-moving car, and wheeled after Riza. She was already in the road, and they were nowhere near a ramp down to the pavement – Havoc would have to jump the curb to get to her, and was not nearly able to pull such a stunt yet, not at this speed. He watched in horror as the First Lieutenant ran over, pushing the child out of the way of the traffic. She was pushed backwards in a recoiling motion not unlike when shooting a large gun. Unfortunately for her, this was one time when the recoiling motion made it hard for her to continue an intended path, in this case, her path across the street. She hovered between moving across the road and being pushed back just long enough for the car to collide with her. She fell to the pavement heavily.

Traffic almost immediately stopped in all directions, and Havoc struggled down to Riza. He yelled to someone to get help, and then gracelessly yanked Riza up by her arm so he could check for a pulse. His heart fell when he didn't find one. He yelled for someone who knew CPR, but passersby didn't break stride for a crazy cripple yelling in the street. He yelled at Riza to wake up, to keep going the way she had said she would, even without Roy to keep watch on them, in the makings of the coup… like she said! He loved her a little bit yesterday, and he wasn't going to give her up this easily! Dammit, what a creepy twist of fate! That damned Fuhrer's son, he was already gone, the rat who had caused this accident. Maybe he was in on it! No, Havoc, you can't start seeing every child as an enemy. That child in particular is the worst victim of this whole affair. No, Havoc, focus! Your new leader is dying in your arms! He snapped out of his reverie to the loud clamor of the paramedics who rushed Riza onto an ambulance. He followed, taking a shortcut to the hospital (he knew that place like the back of his hand, as well as ways to get there). Once he arrived, he pushed through the mess of doctors and nurses who were running around like chickens with their heads cut off, making him feel only less reassured, not more.

"How is First Lieutenant Hawkeye?" He tried to keep his voice steady and below a crazed yell, but he could tell he was failing.

"I don't know who you are, but you have to leave this area."

"Like hell I do! I'm Second Lieutenant Havoc, I served with this officer, and I want to know how she is doing."

"She's clinically dead." A doctor walked up to Havoc and the nurse who was giving him the runaround and asked Havoc politely if he was the man who came in with the First Lieutenant.

"Yes, I am."

"I am sorry sir, but the First Lieutenant did not survive. We did all we could. You may see her one more time if you wish."

What?

Havoc broke through the ranks of doctors still buzzing about, brushing specks of salty water off his face. When did they get there, already inches below his eyes?

"What the hell, Riza!" he rasped almost incoherently. "You said only _yesterday _that you wanted to take over in a new way. And now you get yourself killed for a little aristocratic brat! What am I going to do without you? What is the Colonel going to do without you? We need you, Riza… who is going to keep the Colonel in line like you could? Who is going to keep me up to speed on what is going on? I was counting on you… we all were. Please come back!" He could have sworn he saw Riza's lip twitch. "Her lip! Her lip twitched! Doctor! Maybe she's not gone!"

"Sir, spasms aren't uncommon in the recently deceased. I am sorry for your loss. Were you and the First Lieutenant close?" As Havoc started to calm down talking to the soothingly-voiced doctor, nurses scurried over to the stretcher and started to move Riza away.

"Where are they taking her?" Havoc was immediately tense again.

"They are taking her to the morgue, where she will stay until a family member comes to claim her. In fact, I was hoping you could tell me of any family that the First Lieutenant has."

"But she doesn't have any family. I don't think she does, anyway. I can pull up a file on her and find out."

"That is appreciated."

Havoc left in shock, barely hearing or seeing the world around him. He felt like he was underwater, with everything muted and bubbling, slow-moving and dull. He went back to the Central headquarters and explained what had happened to the highest-ranking people he could find. They went off to report the news. He slowly went to Riza's station and perused the documents there, hoping to find anything on the First Lieutenant herself. This turned up nothing. Eventually he decided to request the biographical information so he could give it to the doctors to hunt down a relative. The messenger he grabbed hold of asked him if he would rather that Central Command handle the incident, and he refused. The messenger shook his head in boredom and handed over the information to Havoc after what he clearly thought was a frustrating search. Havoc wouldn't delegate this last good turn he could do for Riza. Was this really the end? They would never work together again, never complain about Mustang together again, never… Havoc shook his head, determining to shake all of this, the sooner the better. He went to the hospital again, and gave the information to the doctor who he had spoken with before.

"Here. She has one living relative, her grandfather, Lieutenant General Grumman in Eastern."


End file.
